


a hard day's night

by itsabirditsaplaneitsmediocrefanfics



Category: South Park
Genre: Bad Decisions, Fluff and Angst, Mafia AU, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sp mafia au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabirditsaplaneitsmediocrefanfics/pseuds/itsabirditsaplaneitsmediocrefanfics
Summary: A mafia auWith Cartman's rise in power, the underground is starting to get out of control, forcing everyone into his game.It's an awful time for the dangerous consigliere to fall in love, for the assassin to find his long lost sister, for the rogue cop to decide to work alone, for his partner to decide to bet everything on finding him, and for the psychiatrist to seek a little danger in life.But life isn't always easy.Inspired by aegisdea's sp mafia auVERY heavy mature - may transition into explicit





	1. Weight of the knife

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, this was nerve-wracking to write. If you haven't seen aegisdea's sp mafia au stuff, hop on Tumblr and look. I know there's others, too, who have done sp mafia au stuff, and it's all amazing as well. 
> 
> I have a Tumblr! It's mediocrefanfics. I'm chatty, so feel free to talk, ask questions, so forth. I take requests, too :)

“Come on, just one drink? You’re so boring lately.”

There’s women on either side of Clyde, practically sitting in his lap. Their perfume makes Craig want to choke.

One smoothly slides over the seat, leaning into Craig, all smiles and seduction. “Yeah, handsome, why not have a drink?”

Craig has been called ‘handsome’ a lot in life, unlike Clyde, and isn’t impressed. He scoots away from her pointedly.

“Craig is gay,” Clyde explains. Clyde often forgets homosexuality is not very common in their lifestyle, and Craig turns his chin ever so slightly at him and narrows his eyes.

“Oh,” the woman replies, quickly scooting back over to Clyde.

With that, Craig decides enough is enough, making his way out of the booth. “I’m going home.”

Clyde leans over one of the girls, almost dumping her into the floor. It gives away that under the expensive suits, the hidden guns, the tough guy demeanor, he’s just a silly boy from South Park. “Aw, man, come on! After all the work you did today, you need to loosen up, man!”

He feels the girls’ stares on his split and bruised knuckles.

“Oh, I think you’re loose enough for the both of us.” The girls laugh, and for a second Craig smiles to comfort his old friend. “I’m fine, Clyde.” He waves a hand as he turns. “Have fun. Wear a rubber.”

He doesn’t need to see Clyde’s face to see the redness of it. What a poser.

On the way home, Craig doesn’t bother to turn on the radio. He soaks in the silence. Part of him envies Clyde. He connects so easily with people, so effortlessly. Of course Craig has Clyde and Token and Tricia and Jimmy but it’s not the same as when they were kids.

Not when Token is his boss. Not when Clyde and Tricia are too caught up in this lifestyle. Not when Jimmy seeks nothing but fame.

Not to say Craig is any better. He prefers the business side of things. Craig likes to fight, and maybe he will never admit it, but he likes the fear in people’s eyes. His friends might like the pussy or the powder or the money, but Craig likes the power.

He feels the weight of his knife in his breast pocket. Craig knows he’s dangerous - he knows this way of living is dangerous - so he long ago made the promise to himself to never let anyone get that close to him.

Not that he isn’t human. There’s a couple of men in the crime family that have crawled their way to Craig before crawling their way back to their wives. There has been the occasional dolled up male friend of one of Clyde’s women, but they usually either get too into being with a “bad boy” or expect Craig to be their sugar daddy.

Craig reminds himself with every punch, with every stab, with every pull of the trigger, love isn’t for him.

So he goes home every night to his empty apartment, plays with his guinea pigs, and drinks himself to sleep.

And tells himself it’s all okay.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kenny flips Butters onto the table smoothly and cages him between his arms.

“Ken, ah, you need to rest,” Butters manages to choke out with Kenny’s mouth grazing up his neck.

“Fuck that.” Kenny rolls his hips, and Butters moans. He takes his wrists and holds it above his head. “How’s that, doctor?”

“Kenny… Kenny,” he moans, the sound going straight to Kenny’s groin. “Kenny!”

The last one sounded very much different.

Kenny looks down to see blood dripping from his shoulder onto Butters. He sits back and grins.“Oops.”

“I told you!” Butters says exasperated.

Kenny watches Butters hop up to quickly grab more bandages. He eyes follow the way his hips sway, and when he turns around, Kenny can’t help but smile dopily at his sweet face. This is one of the hottest things about Butters - he really doesn’t know how hot he is.

“Oh, but doctor, how will I ever pay you now, if not with my dick?” Kenny asks theatrically.

Butters stutters. “Don’t joke like that!” He starts to undo the dirty bandage, now soaked with blood. “You’re my boyfriend. You don’t pay for anything.”

Kenny laughs. “You’ll never get med school paid for like that.”

Butters gives him a look. “Oh, believe me, I have plenty of business these days. Eric is in full swing.” His face grows dark. “Someone came in with their hand chopped off today. I told them I couldn’t do anything here except try and stall the bleeding - he’d have to go to the ER for antibiotics.”

“That’s some medieval bullshit,” Kenny breathes. Butters looks up at him for a split second, and Kenny knows he’s wondering if Kenny was the one who did the chopping. “I don’t do Cartman’s dirty work, Leo. You know that. I don’t do anyone’s dirty work.”

“I know, I know,” Butters coos as he wraps the new one around Kenny’s bullet wound. “Wanna tell me how this happened?”

“Job for Token, actually. Needed someone a little quicker on their feet to accompany Craig and Clyde.”

Butters rolls his eyes. “Clyde cries like a baby. Once Craig had to hold his hand while I stitched him up. I would’ve laughed if I didn’t think Craig would kill me.”

Kenny reaches up and grazes his thumb down the scar that cuts across Butters’s eye. It’s cloudier than the other one, a stark contrast against the bright blue. It’s a reminder to Kenny how close he once was to losing him.

The air between them is static again, and Kenny pulls Butters into a kiss. His hands greedily make their way up Butters’s shirt.

But Butters pulls away with a sigh, and Kenny is left with the sweet scent of him. “Come on, Kenny, I’m being serious now. You’ve got to keep the movement to a minimum. Besides, I have an exam to study for.” Butters’s takes Kenny’s hand. “Wanna come over? I’ll make you dinner.”

Kenny laughs, the dark thoughts that dart through his head chased away by the sunshine that is his boyfriend. “Okay, Butterscup.” __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The world comes back into focus, and Stan leans up, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He immediately winces at the sharp pain in his head. His hair is caked in dry blood, and in a panic, he makes sure there’s no open gash.

There’s not - it must be from his nose or mouth or even someone else’s - so he stands up carefully with a groan.

His apartment - if you’ll even call it that - is bitterly cold and the afternoon sun filters through the dirty windows. He limps to the bathroom and all but crawls into the shower. The water isn’t incredibly hot, but it still soothes his muscles.

How did he even get here?

Cartman is even a bigger asshole now than he was when they were kids. Stan has always been better-looking, smarter, more well-loved. Cartman could never get over the fact Kyle had chosen Stan's friendship over his, and now that Stan was in Cartman’s vice grip of course he’d be assigned the worst jobs.

What kind of crime boss would send one man against five? A jealous one.

It didn’t help Stan used to be - well, still is, technically, even though he’s fooling himself - a cop. He’s being made an example of and he knows it.

He wipes the steam off the mirror. His eyes are swollen, his lip is busted, and his beard is tangled. He hates how he looks. Stan has always been a clean-cut guy more or less, and in his head, he can hear Kyle reprimanding him.

_“Dude, gross, shave the beard. You look dumb.”_

It’s been awhile since Stan has let himself think about Kyle.

 _Just a little longer_ , he thinks. _Just a little longer, and no more Cartman. No more._

His mind jerks into the direction of Ike. Of his crumpled body. Of the scream Kyle let out when they found him.

Stan digs around in the sad excuse of a kitchenette and finds a bottle of pine nuts. He’s not sure he can keep food down at the moment, but it’s worth the try.

Not that he’s actually gotten close enough to Cartman to touch a hair on his head. Cartman has kept him at a careful distance, and at this point is only playing cat and mouse.

But Stan has made a promise to himself, to Kyle, to Wendy, to this whole city.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kyle is vaguely aware of Heidi plopping the files down next to him. He’s caught up in the open one in front of him, eyes searching records over and over again for some clue.

**_This person was arrested at this time for that._ **

**_That person was arrested at that place for this._ **

Over and over the names and faces and locations bleed into one another. None lead him to Stan.

He brings his hand up to cover his mouth. Kyle has always been an emotional person, but even he’s not keen on having a breakdown in the middle of the station.

Heidi puts a slender hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve got to find him,” he says shakily. “I miss him.”

“We’ll find him. Don’t worry.” He can feel the warmth of her body closer to him. Suddenly they feel like the only two people in the crowded station.

“How does Wendy do it?” he asks quietly. “How does she just accept the fact he’s left?”

They hear someone clear their throat and both turn slowly, with great trepidation. Wendy stands behind them, hands on hips. “I accept the fact the crime rate is higher than it’s ever been. I accept the fact it’s our job to keep this city safe. If Stan wants to go play mafia, he can, at his own risk.” She walks over to Kyle, and her voice gets softer, more gentle. “It shouldn’t distract us from our job. You have responsibilities, Broflovski.”

Kyle doesn’t have the emotional energy right now to retort back. Deep down he knows it’s true - horrible, violent, ugly things are starting to boil beneath them in the underground. What once was just criminals wallowing in their own decadent vices, affecting only those who chose to enter their inferno, is now overflowing in the streets.

But Kyle misses his best friend. His super best friend who disappeared in the middle of the night with only a note scribbled on the back of a photo of them when they were ten. 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bebe has it all. A doctorate, an office all to her own, a list of patients that looks like a directory of who’s who in the city, beauty, a nice apartment with her best friend, even a sweet boyfriend. Bebe Stevens has it all at the ripe age of 30.

And she’s fucking bored as shit.

Her secretary, a portly, middle-aged woman, stumbles in, and hands her a file. She opens it and then gives the other woman a look. “Umm… all it says is Clyde Donovan. Where’s his medical history?”

Lydia clears her throat. “He doesn’t have any.”

Bebe is confused before it dawns on her. This happens occasionally. Usually it’s a former child star hiding their identity or a politician or something. They’re never as interesting as it would seem.

“Oh, okay,” she says dryily. “It’ll be nice to have a new patient. When’s his appointment?”

“Tomorrow. And you know, Dr. Stevens, he sounded like a nice young man on the phone.” She raises her eyebrows as she leaves.

“What the fuck,” Bebe whispers under her breath. Lydia means well, but damn, if she didn’t have the most archaic ideas of what a woman should have at Bebe’s age.

Bebe looks around at her office. It once was a residential home, built at the turn of the century. It’s got the high ceilings with the intricate moldings and stately wooden floors. It’s filled with comfortable furniture - stylish but reliable, which Bebe likes to think is similar to herself - and a plush rug. She smiles at it. That rug has been with her since she moved into her first dorm.

Glossy photos of her and Pip smile back at her. For a second Bebe feels a combination of guilt and confusion. Pip is good-looking - not enough to be better looking than Bebe, but enough to suffice. He’s probably the kindest person she knows and is incredibly intelligent, a literature professor at the local university. Pip absolutely worships the ground Bebe walks on.

And he’s British.

But Bebe has been distancing herself more and more from him. She’s found herself almost recoiling when he leans in to kiss her.

Wendy says she’s just going through an early mid-life crisis, but who is she to talk? She dumped Stan flat on his ass when that boy was just about ready to pop the question.

Bebe distracts herself with other things, like her plans for the night. Maybe she’ll go out with Wendy or maybe she’ll stay in and finish watching The Handmaid’s Tale. Maybe she’ll just sit on the couch, bored until she’s a pile of dusty bones.

Bebe doesn’t know, but she secretly hopes this Clyde is as “nice” as Lydia says he sounds.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“And you’re sure Trish and Red aren’t working tonight?” Craig asks, eyebrow raised, looking up from the rim of his glass.

He feels someone smack the back of his head. Anyone else besides Tricia and Red and he’d have slit their throat right there.

“Easy, asshole,” Tricia says, clenching her teeth at how tightly Craig has her hand in a grip.

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, quietly. “You can’t sneak up on me like that. You should know better.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, did you think we’d tell Clyde to bring you if we were gonna be on stage?” They sit gingerly next to him on either side. He looks at Red, her scarlet hair pulled up in a messy bun, and Tricia, with her jean shorts and simple T-shirt.

“Wait, you asked Clyde to bring me?”

Clyde looks at all of them, clearly annoyed. “I thought this was supposed to be an undercover mission.”

Tricia rolls her eyes at his terminology. “Okay, 007.”

“I _thought_ we were supposed to be meeting Token here on business,” Craig says venomously.

“Oh, we are! Don’t worry about it.”

“Welp! Anyway, Red and I are going to catch a movie.” They get up and scamper off before Craig can say anything.

He narrows his eyes. “What’re you all up to?”

“Nothing!” Clyde chirps. “Come on, chill out. You’ll have plenty of time to be Mr. Dark and Mysterious when Token gets here.”

They sit in silence, Clyde watching the girls and Craig drinking.

Craig is busy being a combination of annoyed by the thumping music and slipping into a pleasant buzz when something catches his attention.

At first all he notices are the black heels, which are attached to an admittedly nice pair of legs. Then his eyes wander up.

He stops himself from choking on his drink.

Tricia and Red didn’t mention there was a new addition.

Much less that it’s a man.

He’s gorgeous, in a way that makes Craig’s blood rush hot under his skin. He’s pale and lithe and Craig’s eyes glide over his defined collarbones to his sharp jaw to his slender face. He’s got wide, hazel eyes, rimmed with makeup, and pretty, crimson lips. His hair is a little wild and blonde, and the way he nervously, cutely tucks it behind his ear before he smoothly glides his back down the pole is so just perfectly charming, Craig blushes. He’d almost look innocent if it weren’t for the tight leather black shorts and the way he’s moving his body.

Craig instantly accepts that he’d very much like the man to move his body against him like that.

Clyde laughs lowly, lighting a cigarette. “You keep staring at blondie over there.”

Craig takes a swig from his glass before side eyeing him. “Shut up, Donovan.”

So this is why they brought him here.

“You wanna know his name?” Clyde leans back, smiling devilishly.

Whatever snippy response Craig is going to give is interrupted by Token.

“Hey,” he says. Even amongst a strip club, Token looks like royalty. The way the two men instantly turn their attention to him doesn’t hurt the effect either.

He sits down in between them. “You two wanna explain what happened the other night?”

It’s apparent Token is fighting the urge to be soft with his old friends, but they take his tone seriously.

“There were a lot more of them than we thought,” Clyde says. Craig remains stonily silent. “A lot more, boss. Even the hire was overwhelmed.”

Craig can feel an unrest at the bottom of his stomach. Rarely did he and Clyde get sent out to do something like that - they were much too high ranking - but this had been important and touchy. This was an attack on their ally, a secret one no one was supposed to know about, and they had dropped the ball big time. There were only supposed to be around three guys there - it was supposed to be an easy process - but even Kenny was taken aback when there were more like twenty. They almost didn’t make it out alive. In fact, Kenny had been shot but brushed it off in his usual manner.

“Did they see your faces?”

 _Fuck_ , Craig thinks. Clyde looks at him desperately.

Craig clears his throat and puts down his glass. “Yeah, they did. Except for McCormick’s of course, but that’s a moot point, I guess.”

Craig is a lot of things, but one thing he is not is dishonest.

Token closes his eyes, and for a second, they think he’s going to lose his cool demeanor. “You know what that means, right?”

Craig leans in towards him. “Token,” he says, “don’t worry about it. It was going to happen eventually and you know it. Everyone in Cartman’s way is gonna have targets on their backs at some point.” Token and Clyde know Craig has a point - he is the consigliere after all. “Clyde will let everyone know, gather the troops, so to speak. This is what we do.”

Token takes a deep breath before looking at Craig. He seems tired, worn, and Craig wants to throw an arm around his shoulder like the old days. “Do you know how far Cartman’s influence reaches in this city now?”

“Even more reason for us to face him head on.”

Token smiles. Craig’s bravery has always been one of his favorite things about him. “Do you know who just bought this strip club we’re sitting in? The one your own sister and cousin work for?”

Craig is silent, and Token knows he’s gotten him.

“Fuuuuck,” Clyde groans, rubbing his face.

The two others snap out of it. “What’s wrong with you?” Token asks, his demeanor much more familiar now.

They follow Clyde’s line of sight. Some girl in next to nothing, sitting on top of the bar, is staring at him icily.

“I gave her the clam and forgot to tell her,” he says hurriedly, standing up.

Token and Craig look at him in disgust. “Dude, that’s fucking gross.”

“Hey, listen, nearly 2 million Americans have chlamydia at some point, so you two can go -”

The woman gets up and makes her way quickly to them.

“Gotta go! Sorry, Token, don’t worry, this will work out, it always does, love you both, hugs and kisses…” Clyde practically runs out the back exit.

Token shakes his head. “You know, if I hadn’t know you two since we were five…”

“We'd be at the bottom of the river. We know,” Craig says, smiling. He isn’t always so hard and cold. “But it will be okay. We’re all strong. And Cartman might have a long reach, but he’s made more enemies than friends. At least we keep our shit to the confines of our own debauchery.”

Token gives him a look. “Speak for yourself.” Token is the most clean-living crime boss in all of history, which might very well have to do with how highly effective he is.

“At least the heat isn’t on us as much anymore,” Craig says to himself quietly. Then he sits up, having struck an idea.

“What?”

Craig decides quickly not to talk about it yet, to give him some time to hash it out. “I have an idea, but let me think about it first.” He can’t help but notice Token still looks worried, a privilege for Craig to see under the emotional mask he keeps. “Hey,” he says quietly. “It’ll be okay. I say this as your friend, not just your consigliere.”

Token smiles at him, getting up. “I need to be getting home. I promised Nicole I’d spend more time with her.”

They bid farewell. The cold night air is welcome after the hot, stuffy, loud strip club. He’s opening his car door, thinking about that blonde, when his phone buzzes with a message from Tricia.

_He gets off at 2. I told him you’d come look for him in the dressing rooms._

_P.S. he noticed you drooling over him and thinks you’re hot, too_

Craig feels his heart pound and his face tingle with embarrassment. His phone says it’s 1:30.

Craig decides maybe he can stand the strip club another thirty minutes.


	2. This sinner of a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Tumblr - it's mediocrefanfics :) I'm chatty and fulfill requests, so feel free to talk to me <3 
> 
> All the stuff about the strip club is based on stories and things friends of mine have told me who used to be strippers. 
> 
> \--- warning----
> 
> there are lots of mentions of drugs and LOTS of violence
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> There's a preview for the next chapter at the bottom.

“Be careful,” Butters whispers, kissing Kenny in the doorway.

Kenny tilts his chin up. “Hey, baby, don’t worry. _You_ be careful.”

Butters smiles a little sadly. “I don’t trust him, Ken.”

“I don’t either.” Kenny leaves before he gets too caught up in the tears welling in Butters’s eyes and slips into the streets. It’s starting to rain, and the city smells like damp trash.

Kenny feels himself shift into mode. He pulls up his mask over his mouth and nose, the weight of the gun under his jacket heavy.

He’ll be glad to leave this life behind. Butters graduates soon, and Kenny is planning to whisk him off to the life he deserves. No more grungy underworld, no more date nights interrupted by someone shot or someone who needs to be shot. Maybe Kenny will get his mortician license - he really doesn’t know for sure - but the truth is Kenny wants a white fence and all.

But he still has unfinished business.

Like a shadow, he ducks into a black car waiting a few blocks down. He’s next to a man who looks vaguely familiar in a tight suit. He’s pretty sure they went to school together - Jason something - but Kenny doesn’t really care. No one is a friend in this situation.

Kenny can’t tell where they’re headed. It’s pitch dark, his silent companions occasionally lit by a passing streetlamp. When the car comes to a sudden halt, Kenny sees they’re at a house - a mansion, really - but the closer Kenny gets he can see the facade in it. It’s one of those newly-built McMansions, almost grotesque in its architecture. It’s tacky and excessive. It screams Eric Cartman.

“Follow me,” the man says quietly, and Kenny nods, on high alert. The house is swarmed in lackeys, dressed to the nines and armed to the teeth. They watch Kenny like they’re circling sharks, and he broadens his shoulders, making sure to make eye contact with each one.

The inside is just as nouveau riche as the outside, and they lead Kenny into a grand dining room. At the end of it sits Eric Cartman, like some overstuffed toad. He’s wearing a nice suit, and his hair is swept neatly to the side, but his overall air ruins the illusion.

“Hello, Kenny,” Cartman says, like they haven’t known each other for decades. “Why don’t you sit down.”

“I’d rather stand.”

Cartman’s men look at him sharply. “Down, boys. Kenny is a dear friend.”

Kenny narrows his eyes. There’s something about the tone in his voice he doesn’t like.

“I’ve got a surprise for you, Kenny! Jason, go fetch Karen.”

Kenny’s body goes stiff. Surely, surely not - it can’t be his Karen. His Karen is a successful career woman somewhere with a family and a spouse that brings her flowers like he brings Butters. She escaped this life - that’s why she hasn’t talked to him in seven years.

Jason escorts Karen in, and every hope Kenny has ever had for her is dashed. She looks much more made up than he last saw her and much more tired. Kenny thinks her lips are too dark, her black dress is too tight, her heels are too tall, not because he feels judgement on what she wears, but because he can tell. He can tell she’s not okay.

This is not his Karen, but at the same time she _is_.

He fights every urge to reach out for her, as she walks stiffly around to Cartman and sits right in his lap.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing with my sister, Cartman?”

He and Jason reach for their gun at the same time.

“Hey, hey, whoa, guys! Calm down. Really, Kenny this is supposed to be a happy occasion. Your dear old friend Cartman is soon to be your brother-in-law!”

Kenny slams his hands on the table, jerking himself forward. “Karen, do you know who he is? Do you know what he’s done?”

“Nothing worse than you’ve ever done,” Cartman says cooly.

Kenny is speechless. All he can do is bear his eyes into Karen’s darkly rimmed ones, which are devastatingly empty, and hope she gets the message.

_I’m sorry._

“What’s the point in this, Cartman? I thought you had a job for me,” Kenny asks viciously. He’s desperately forcing the memories he has of the little pig-tailed girl out of his head. He can’t lose it right now, he absolutely can’t.

“Oh, I do.” Cartman motions for a man holding a folder.

The man tosses it to Kenny. He opens it with caution. It only takes a couple of seconds before he shakes his head and pushes the folder back to Cartman. “No, absolutely not. This is a suicide mission.” He might not have to worry about dying permanently, but Death is a bitch and has ways of making him wish he’d just die. Kenny has been tortured tons of times now, but it never gets easier, less painful, less demeaning.

Cartman smiles, and it immediately makes Kenny feel sick. “I don’t think you’re in the position to decline.”

The way Karen flinches when he says this seals the deal.

“God damn it, Cartman,” Kenny seethes. The butt end of a pistol cracks against his face, and he lands on the floor with a clatter. Blood gushes out of the mask and Kenny has to remove it lest he choke on it. Jason looms over him.

“Motherfucker,” Kenny spits. “I will fucking end you-”

Jason stomps into Kenny’s ribs, and he cries out in pain. He knows he looks pathetic now, gasping for breathe and clutching his side.

“Jason, take him home. Or better yet, do our friend a favor and drop him off at his boyfriend’s little… clinic.”

_Not Butters, too_ , Kenny thinks.

He forces himself up, grunting in pain and follows Jason out, ignoring the smirks.

Kenny holds it together for the car ride, even though he can feel his vision get hazy at the blood loss.

They kick him out onto the sidewalk at Butters’s clinic, his body crumpling weakly on the wet concrete. He limps in, smearing blood against the wall as he drags himself up. As soon as he crosses in Butters’s threshold, he collapses.

He lies there, holding his ribs, grateful he doesn’t have a patient right now. Butters comes rushing out of the storage area at the sound of his struggling. “Ken,” he gasps, and takes him up in his arms.

Kenny takes a shaky hand and brushes Butters’s face. “He’s got her,” he says, shuddering at the pain. “He’s got Karen.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Stan looks at the man in front of him in disgust. “Are you kidding me? Is this some sort of sick joke?”

It’s the same man Cartman always uses to give Stan his assignments. Some faceless, violent goon.

“I’m sorry, _cop_ , is this too real for you?”

Stan wants to pull out the Beretta in his waistband and blow him away. He all but snarls at the man.

“Be ready to go by 1,” the man says dismissively, walking away. “Wear something dark.”

Stan slams the door, sliding down it and pulling his knees to his head. He lets out a shuddering breath. He wants to call Kyle. He has to, even if it’s just to hear his voice. Stan misses Wendy, too, but it’s not the same. She’ll demand he come back, guilt trip him, tell him he’s being an idiot. Kyle will do all that, too, but in the end, he’ll just listen, even if it’s just to hear him cry.

Stan knows this is a bad idea. He’s been assigned to terrorize, even possibly kill, innocent people. And it’s not unusual for an undercover cop to have to do things they wouldn’t want to do, but at what point is the breaking point?

He makes himself get up off the dirty floor, disgusted at himself. Stan’s burner phone is next to a mess of blankets he’s been sleeping on and he sits cross-legged, dialing Kyle’s number.

He’s on auto-pilot. Stan knows if he thinks about it too hard he’ll put down the phone, forget the notion. He’ll shake the sense in himself that this is the only way to Cartman, this is a test.

If the heroic Stan really is willing to get his hands bloody, then maybe he has really turned to the dark side.

He’s about to hang up when Kyle finally answers. “Hello?” God, his voice sounds like home to Stan.

“... hey, Kyle.”

“Stan?! Oh my god!” Stan can hear the panic colliding confusingly with the joy, a million emotions flickering in Kyle at once. Kyle has always been that way. “Where are you?! Are you okay?! I-”

“Kyle,” Stan breathes, and it stops his questioning short. “I just wanted to… hear your voice.” He blushes, pinching the bridge of his nose. No wonder everyone thought they were secretly a couple.

Kyle is silent for a second. “Stan, we miss you. Come home,” he says, on the verge of outright begging.

“Tell Wendy I love her,” Stan says quietly. He looks out his grimy windows to the cityscape. He’s in the worst part of town and the horizon is cut with a zigzag of warehouses and slums. The sun sets below it, glorifying it in warm light.

“No, Stan, I’m not going to let-”

“I love you, Kyle,” Stan says. That always shuts Kyle up - it always has. He hangs up before Kyle can respond. Standing up, he throws the phone on the floor and stomps on it hard. It shatters.

Stan tucks away his despair in a corner of his being and grabs the half empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the peeling counter.

He might as well be out of it for what he’s about to do.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Most of the girls have gotten off already, so Craig is relieved to see the back is empty.

His heart pounds deafeningly in his chest - this is not in his nature to seek someone out. Men come to Craig, the handsome, dark consigliere with the razor sharp wit and the red hot temper, and all Craig has to do is take what he wants.

Now he’s the one coming to the man, and he’s not sure how to initiate even the simplest conversation.

Craig finds him in the eye-searingly red space the dancers use as a sort of break room.

The man is busy at a cluttered table, counting cash under his breath. He’s just a beautiful up close. Freckles cross his face, his mouth is a little too wide, his hair is a little tangled, but it all adds to the charm of him.

He looks up at Craig, who like the useless homosexual he is just stands there, and makes some sort of squeak.

They stare at each other for a millenium. Suddenly, the man stands up. He sticks out his hand, his fingernails long and pale pink.

Craig shakes it, like he never has shaken a god damn hand in his life.

Their hands drop, but the man never lets go.

“So you’re Craig?” he says quietly, nervously, getting closer. Craig is immediately enchanted by the way he looks up at him through his thick lashes, innocently, demurely, and the way his cologne just ever so slightly surrounds them both.

_Oh, right_ , Craig thinks, _he does this for a living_.

“I am. It’s nice to meet you,” he says lowly. The man is shorter than he thought he’d be. “So you know Tricia and Red?”

“Jimmy, too,” he smiles, and there’s a little more honest warmth in his face. Craig is enraptured by it and knows he’ll do anything to see him smile like that again.

This bit of information catches him off guard, though. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” the man giggles.

“How do you know him?” Craig decides his questioning is putting him in a weird place, so he puts a hand on the man’s waist and slides it down his hip. _I’m the one leading this dance._

The man’s eyes haze over a little bit, and he smiles knowingly. “Tricia has told me a lot about you.”

Craig briefly wonders why he’s ignoring his question but decides quickly there's more important things at hand. “Oh, really? And what has she told you?” he says, lips close to the man’s ear. He feels triumphant at the shiver that he can feel go up his spine.

“That you’re not as scary as you seem.”

“And what do you think?” He pushes the man back to where he has to sit on the table, and their bodies are only a sliver apart.

The man smiles nervously. “I don’t really know, but I aim to find out.”

His anxious tone for such a line makes Craig genuinely grin. “Smooth,” he says as he grabs the man so that his legs are wrapped around his waist.

Craig kisses him. It’s been a long time since Craig has felt the tingling euphoria of a good kiss, and he deepens it, lying him down on the table. The man’s lips are soft, and he tastes likes cigarettes and waxy lipstick.

Their tongues intertwine, and the man lets out a little whimper that makes Craig buck his hips against him.

The man reaches up and undoes Craig’s tie with deftness. He practically rips the top buttons off, revealing Craig’s muscular shoulders, where the black designs he has tattooed at his wrists extend all the way to his neck.

Craig knows by the pause the man is impressed but doesn’t have time to be too cocky before he latches his mouth at the side of Craig’s neck.

“Fuck,” Craig breathes out, shuddering under the way his tongue traces all the way up to his earlobe, where he nips it.

Craig reaches to unlace his shorts, pull them down, anything.

They hear high-pitched giggling that comes to an abrupt stop. They both scramble to sit up. Two of the dancers stand in the doorway.

“You’re not supposed to bring men back here,” one says, putting her hands on her hips, pursing glittery lips.

“I was just leaving anyway,” Craig says quickly. It occurs he’s probably covered in red lipstick, and he probably needs to stop by the bathroom on the way out.

The man fixes his shirt and tie before Craig can himself and straightens his collar with an air that’s almost domestic. Craig makes a quick exit out of the room without saying goodbye, past the girls’ sassy stares, and despite his good sense, he hopes desperately the man chases after him.

Right at the doorway from the back hallway - right at the threshhold of the smoke and the thumping music and the people - he hears it.

“Wait, Craig!” The man is wrapped in a black peacoat, legs still bare. When he gets to Craig, he’s suddenly shy, a blush spreading across his face. “Do you want to know my name?”

In a way, names are sacred to strippers. A stripper doesn’t share their real name with anyone, no matter how “nice” the guy is.

Craig wants to tell him it’s dangerous to go around telling people this kind of personal information, but instead he just nods.

Even in high heels, the man has to stand on his tip toes a little. He grabs onto Craig’s arm and brings his lips up to his ear. The way he breathes his name makes Craig turn his head until their lips are almost touching. He kisses him quickly, softly.

Tweek eyes search his face, darting quickly back and forth. “Will I see you again?”

The question surprises Craig, and he feels like he’s about to drop through the flooring. He can’t decide if he wants to slam on the brakes or take this man in his arms and carry him home right now.

He goes with a happy medium.

“Yes,” he says. “You will.”

He turns and ducks into the smoke and the loudness and the laughter.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Tweek leaves through the back entrance, holding his coat closely to him like a security blanket.

When he steps out into the damp alley, his mind is so busy thinking about Craig, he almost trips over a discarded box.

Tweek knows he’s already crazy about him. It’s the handsome face with the sharp features, the eyes like sea glass, the muscles of art work, the pretty tan skin. It’s the way he kissed Tweek, like he knew exactly what he was doing but made Tweek feel like he was the only person in the universe that mattered to him.

There’s something more than that, though. Tweek can’t get out of his head the way his face lit up at the mention of Jimmy, the way he softly answered him when he asked if they’d see each other again. Tweek thinks there’s something more to this consigliere than his violent reputation.

His mind is so wrapped up he doesn’t hear the men approaching him. When he looks up the panic washes over him. 

They’re gruff-looking, bulky, and Tweek knows they’re some of Cartman’s lower henchmen. In one swift motion, they have him pinned against the brick wall.

“Stop, please, I’m not late,” he manages to gasp, choking as one of the men wraps a meaty hand around his neck. It only gets tighter, and he feels the tears rushing out of his eyes.

The other man reaches his hands into Tweek’s coat pockets, finding them empty. His hands slither into Tweek’s jeans he changed into. Tweek starts to struggle harder.

“Don’t-”

“Shut up!” The man pinning him strikes him across the face, and Tweek tastes blood.

He feels some kind of fucked up relief when the man only pulls out Tweek’s things from his pocket and withdraws his hand. He pockets a little bag of some blow Tweek had and thumbs through his wallet.

“How much?”

The man pulls out the money Tweek made that night and counts it. “Enough to cover this time.”

Both the men turn their attention back to him, and he feels like he’ll be sick. “Next time it’ll be 8.”

“$800? I can’t do that. No, that’s not what we agreed. I’m almost done paying my debt off -”

The man lets go of his throat, dropping him to the ground. He swiftly kicks Tweek in the stomach. “If you have blow money, you can give us more, bitch.”

The man spits in his direction, and they laugh at how he tries to scramble away only to yelp in pain.

They leave him there, and Tweek sobs. Every time they come, they demand more and more money. Tweek is working three jobs - not to mention his side job escorting - to make up his drug debt, just to get knocked back ten steps every step forward.

At least he’s almost kicked his habit.

He sits there, even when the cold rain starts to come down, the blood and tears dripping onto the wet pavement.

Eventually the girls leaving the last shift find him and help him in. They don’t bother to ask him who did it. In their way of life, it could’ve been anyone.

A jealous boyfriend, a john that thought he could get away with smacking him around a little, a regular mugger, or angry drug dealers getting their pay.

They help wipe the blood off his face.

The “mother” - the older woman who helps manage the club and look after the dancers - quietly asks him questions.

_Do you think you need to go to the hospital?_

_Did they violate you?_

_Do you need a ride home?_

Tweek numbly shakes his head at each one, and eventually walks home, stumbling, ignoring the icy rain.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kyle throws his phone so hard, it goes through the drywall. “God fucking damn it!”

He sits back at his desk and starts to gather his things as quickly as possible. There’s too many eyes on him. Kyle knows the other cops have been whispering behind his back - that Broflovski is losing it, he’s going mad. Some say Stan was his lover, some say Stan isn’t even undercover - he truly has crossed into the other territory.

Whatever they say, he doesn’t know whether to scream or cry, so he hurries to leave.

He’s interrupted by Heidi. She carefully approaches him, like he’s some crazy animal ready to attack. It hurts him the way her pretty, grey eyes look at him almost frightened.

Kyle clears his throat. “Hey, Heidi, what’s up?” His attempt at casualness is ridiculous, he knows, but it seems to comfort her a little.

“Wendy wants to see you in her office.” She discreetly puts a hand on his back.

“Great,” he says, anxiety blooming even more in his stomach. He has a feeling he’ll be paying for the wall repairs again.

Kyle enters Wendy’s office, neat and sterile. She sits at her highly efficient and organized desk, her black bob looking particularly sharp, and her dress suit particularly smart. There’s a vase of dead flowers, startlingly out-of-place, full of wilted white roses.

Kyle realizes they were the last flowers Stan brought her and suddenly, he feels incredibly guilty for being so self-centered.

“Sit down, please,” she orders, the please an unnecessary nicety. Kyle does as he’s told, feeling like a schoolboy in trouble. “I’ll pretend I didn’t just hear you throw what I suspect is your phone through what I suspect is the wall.”

Kyle looks downward sheepishly, and he catches a flicker of something in Wendy’s face. He realizes he probably looks like the little boy being reprimanded by his mother he once was.

“We’re going to have a raid in the morning,” she says. “We got a tip the warehouse on South Main is the storage center for … something Cartman has been dealing lately.”

“In the morning? Don’t you think-”

“Our informant says they’ve been doing business in the morning for exactly that reason. Who expects a bunch of criminals to be up at dawn?”

Kyle nods in understanding.

“So, 4 am, be sharp and ready, got it? These are the big boys. People are going to get hurt, and I’d rather it not be any of ours.” Wendy tosses her pen on the desk. Kyle knows she’s secretly anxious as hell about this and is probably itching for a cigarette.

He decides not to tell her about Stan’s call.

“You can go now.” Kyle stands up, and just as he’s about to exit the office, she stops him. “The repairs are coming out of your check, by the way.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bebe doesn’t really know what to think about Clyde Donovan. He’s certainly boyish, and perhaps charming. He’s maybe a little chunky under that suit, but he’s extremely well-dressed, and she likes how he wears his hair.

She gives him a 6/10. Passable.

She writes this down in her notes, for whatever inexplicable reason.

“So, Clyde, tell me about yourself,” she starts. She crosses her legs, and she can tell his eyes follow them as she does so.

He clears his throat. “My name is Clyde and I’m 27.”

Bebe would’ve thought he was being a smartass, but he says this in such a simple manner, she knows he truly is trying to answer her question.

“Okay, good, well, that’s pretty much the only information I already had about you, so let’s start again. Why are you here?”

“I…” He looks away from her, at his bookcase. “My mother died in front of me when I was 10, and I guess I’ve always had a hard time about it. My best friend told me I should go see someone.”

“Okay, I see. What kind of behaviors do you think would make your best friend want you to go see a doctor?”

“Women,” he says, and then blushes. “I definitely have a woman problem. And work. I don’t get as carried away as Crai - my best friend - but I tend to cry a lot about it afterwards. I also probably drink too much… sometimes drugs, too, but I don’t make a habit out of that… It’s just in my job, all that shit is so accessible.”

“And what is it that you do?”

He suddenly makes intense eye contact with her, and she knows she’s asked the wrong question. “I don’t think we should discuss what I do for a living.”

“Oh,” she says. It dawns on her. The nice suit, the tattoos she can see peeking from his shirt sleeve, the busted knuckles. This city is ran by mobsters, and he must be one of them.

“Okay, well, Mr. Donovan, tell me about the women, then.”

“What is there to say? I sleep around a lot. I constantly seek female validation. I’m not an idiot. I know why I do it. My mother wasn’t a loving woman when she was alive, and …” He trails off, and Bebe can tell there’s more to the story, but she decides right now is not the time to press for details.

“Alright, well, tell me about these women. Do you notice a pattern with them? A certain type?”

“Floozies,” he says. “They want me for my money, and I want them for their… attention,” he ends quickly.

“And how do you feel when they give you attention, Clyde?”

“Like I’m doing something right. Like I’m important or… worthy.”

_Bingo_ , Bebe thinks. “You just used the word ‘worthy’. So these girls make you feel worthy. Did your mother ever make you feel worthless?”

Clyde starts to talk about his memories - of nothing ever being good enough. His grades were never high, he was never that great at sports, he ran around with a troublesome crowd. At one point he starts to cry, and Bebe pushes a box of tissues towards him. Their session ends. Clyde is visibly feeling better, breathing lighter. Bebe feels a warmth in her heart for him - for this sinner of a man who just misses his mom, wants to make her proud.

He gets up, and she walks him to the door. Clyde smiles at her with a lighthearted charm, and she grins back. “So next week?”

“Yep, see you then! Thanks, Doc.”

After he leaves, Bebe throws herself into her chair. Her heart is still thumping from that smile. _God damn it, Bebe_ , she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-------NEXT TIME-------
> 
> Craig gets in too deep, Wendy tells Bebe all about the ruthless underboss Clyde Donovan, Kenny tries to be a good big brother, and Kyle finally finds Stan.


	3. Heart in a vice grip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a transitional chapter, I feel like, so forgive it for being a little short. 
> 
> Feel free to tell me if I need to amp up the rating. I didn't describe anyone's dick, so I feel like I'm coasting on mature, but let me know. 
> 
> Notes and an "up next" at the bottom!
> 
> I have a Tumblr - it's mediocrefanfics. I am chatty and take requests. 
> 
> Thanks for reading !!

“So,” Craig says, sliding in the stool next to Tweek, “you can play the piano, too, huh?”

Tweek yelps. He’s dressed in jeans and a black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to expose his pale arms. Without the makeup, Tweek looks even younger, and there’s dark bags under his eyes. Craig can see the ghost of a shiner on his cheek.

He fights the urge to glide his thumb over it and ask him who did it.

“H-hey, Craig,” Tweek says, his face reddening and a slow grin forming. “How did you find me?”

“There’s only one Tweek,” he flirts.

They both look over at Jimmy, sitting at the other end of the bar, who winks and waves.

Tweek turns back to him with an eyebrow raised.

“Okay, so I asked Jimmy, and he told me you’re a server here. And apparently a pianist,” Craig admits, throwing his hands up. “How does someone who plays piano like you…”

Craig trails off realizing the insensitivity of his question.

“Take their clothes off and entertain men for money? How does someone with a zoology degree join the mafia?” Tweek asks, not unkindly.

Craig shrugs. “So I guess I wasn’t the only one digging up dirt.”

“Guess not.”

“I have an idea. Since you’re done for the night, why don’t you come home with me… and we can get to know each other better?” Craig asks, lighting a cigarette. He almost jumps when he feels Tweek put a hand on his knee.

“Sounds good,” he says, sliding it up his thigh.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Craig grips the headboard with one hand and Tweek’s hair with the other.

His nails claw at Craig’s back, screaming into his shoulder.

“Holy shit, you’re amazing,” Craig gasps over the creak of the mattress, leaning his head back. His body starts to shudder top to bottom.

Tweek whimpers at the pulsating, grinding himself against Craig’s stomach and finding his own release.

They catch their breath, still wrapped up into each other’s embrace.

They lie in silence, before Tweek sighs deeply, shakily. “I was born in a town in Washington State. My family is fairly wealthy in the coffee business, I lived all over. Fell into a bad crowd in college. Dropped out, did lots of drugs. Racked up debt with the dealers.” Craig turns his head to look at Tweek, who still stares up at the ceiling. “And so now I’m here. That’s why I work three jobs. That’s why I do what I do.”

He puts a hand on Tweek’s cheek. “Is that…”

“Where I got the bruise? Yeah, it is.”

Craig closes his eyes and takes Tweek’s hand. He squeezes it.

“H-hey, don’t feel pity for me. I dug my way into this hole, and I’m going to dig my way out.”

He yelps at how quick Craig flips him over on top of him.

Craig watches his face, hovering close to his, and sighs. This man has his heart in a vice grip.

Is he already falling in love?

His blood turns into ice in his veins. How long before he hurts Tweek?

Craig is made of broken glass. He hurts and scars everyone around him, even his damn sister.

Tweek strokes his face softly, wakening him from the dark thoughts he’s caught up in. “What about you?”

Craig knows he’ll have to end this as soon as possible.

_But not right now_ , he thinks. _Not right now_. Tweek deserves to have at least a little glimpse of him, a little explanation for why he’s about to hurt him.

He presses his lips together, a holdover from boyhood days when he had crooked teeth and it made him self-conscious.

“Well, you probably know I was born and raised in the same Colorado town as Jimmy. That’s where I met Token and Clyde, who are also good friends with him. My dad was… misguided, but did his best to accept a gay son. And my mother was… a great person.”

Tweek looks down, and Craig knows the past tense isn’t lost on him.

“We were poor, but we were happy. I was young, just graduated. I was about to start a fellowship with a zoo. I was so happy to have crawled out of that hellhole. Token had taken over the family business in this city, and Clyde had followed him. But I was going to be successful making the world a better place. I was going to be different.”

Tweek hesitates but then grabs Craig’s hand.

“I made good grades - enough for scholarships. But college is expensive even with them. My dad insisted on me not working too many jobs, and I guess I never thought to ask how he made up the difference. The cops - gunned them down, right there. They said my dad fired his shotgun at them, but I know he was just scared. Tricia hid in the closet, and they found her once everything had cooled off.”

Tweek tries to hide his confusion. There’s a missing part of this story.

“Small world - I work… sometimes with the son of the guy who ratted out my dad. Turns out he was helping him make meth to pay for my tuition. Cottage industry of the worst kind, huh? So that's why I do what I do. Because I'm angry.”

It’s apparent Tweek doesn’t know what to say. Craig feels raw, horrible, exposed.

Tweek kisses him, softly and sweetly, and Craig jerks away.

He swallows. “I have… something to do. I have to go.”

“Oh,” Tweek says at the sudden shift in tone. Craig doesn’t make any move to get up, to get ready to go anywhere. 

He gets the message. Tweek has heard that kind of voice before, the signal their business is over, that Tweek should make himself non-existent as soon as possible. He just didn’t think he’d hear it in Craig, even in the short time he's known him.

Tweek thought maybe they had an actual connection.

Maybe he's a fool. Maybe they’re both fools. 

Before he leaves the bedroom, he stops in the doorway. Craig forces himself to look at him.

He looks hurt, possible tears forming in his eyes. “Bye, Craig,” he says, softly, indefinitely. 

“Bye, Tweek,” Craig answers, hoping the coldness in his tone masks the sadness.

He hears Tweek slam the front door, maybe a little angrily, before closing his eyes.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kenny finds himself in Karen's window at Cartman's estate, slipping in quietly. He thinks back to when he was only a boy and would dress up like a superhero to slip into her window much like this.

She’s asleep, her breathing even. He can barely see her form under all the blankets.

Kenny crosses the room and shakes her gently, whispering her name. He quickly covers her mouth when she startles, muffling her scream. “Shh.. Karen, I’m here to save you.”

He withdraws his hand carefully. Karen stares at him, still as a statue, until she smacks him across the face. “You asshole! You fucking crook!” Her sweet voice is almost ridiculously vicious.

Kenny grabs her wrist to stop her from hitting him again. “Karen, do you even know who you’re about to marry? I’m here to save you.”

“I don’t need saving, Kenny. Why do you think I ran away from you?” When Kenny is quiet, she continues. “You’re no better than him, you know that, right? At least he believes in something besides money.”

Kenny scoffs, feeling his temper rise. “Do you think I want to do this anymore? Once you’re in, you can’t get out. Get out while you can, Karen. Let me help you.”

Karen shakes her head. “You really don’t understand, do you?” She sighs, bringing the blanket up to her mouth. Kenny can’t help but smile sadly at the resemblance to him.

He gets up, warily. “Fine, Karen. But I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to let you go down the same path.” He holds out a piece of paper, and when she doesn’t take it, he drops it on the blanket. “If you change your mind, call that number.”

She doesn’t make a move to pick it up.

Kenny leaves stealthily through the window. He hops the fence and as soon as he’s a safe distance out, he starts to run.

He runs until the freezing air fills his lungs, and he can’t breathe anymore. He darts through the woods separating the bourgeoisie suburb and the city, not stopping until he finds the steel bridge that connects the two.

  It’s beginning to snow, and he halts at the edge.

Kenny is just so tired.

_Sorry, Butters_ , he thinks. _I’ll be back tomorrow_.

And then he jumps.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I don’t know, do you think superpowers exist?” Bebe asks, holding the bowl over to Wendy for her to get some popcorn.

“God, I wish. The force could use some.”

The girls sit bundled up together on the couch, watching some heavy handed superhero movie with a too loud soundtrack.

“Really? Has it gotten that bad?”

Wendy gives her a look.

“Okay, dumb question.”

Wendy takes a deep breath. “Cartman's bullshit is… next level bullshit. I’m really worried about Stan. This guy is _sick_ , Bebe.”

Bebe nods sympathetically. Wendy is brave - and forgiving.

“Not to mention the usual guys. It’s only a matter of time before they join Cartman’s… army.”

Bebe stiffens. “So these other guys… what are they like?”

“Well, the mafia boss Token is… okay as far as crime bosses go. They’re into the usual things … selling drugs, pimping, money laundering, arms trade - but they tend to steer clear of the real heavy shit like sex slavery. They treat their women well and tend to only lash out at those who deserve it.”

“They don’t sound like that much of a problem, then.”

“Oh, but they are. Definitely the higher ups. They’re too efficient, particularly vicious. Especially Craig Tucker and Clyde Donovan.”

Bebe almost chokes on her popcorn. “Oh, and what’s up with them?”

“Craig maims his victims - which admittedly are dangerous criminals - like he’s fucking Jack the Ripper. Apparently he uses just a regular switchblade. I don’t even understand why since he’s the consigliere, but Token likes to make sure those closest to him are as lethal as possible. I guess your own men won’t turn on you if they watch your secondhand give someone a Glasgow smile.” Wendy shudders. “And then Clyde is the underboss. I don’t think he’s as bright as Craig, so his orders tend to be full force violence. He doesn’t get his hands as bloody, but he certainly orders others to get theirs.”

Bebe is silent, and Wendy narrows her eyes. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

Bebe shakes her head and forces a grin. “Just curious. Kind of like a movie, right?”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_“It’s even worse than we thought,” Wendy had told him earlier. “Apparently they have hostages in there.”_

_“Who?”_

_“The wife and daughter of someone who crossed Cartman. Innocents.”_

There’s too much adrenaline pumping through Kyle to feel tired. The sky is that watered down blue of early morning and a blanket of gritty snow covers the surroundings around the warehouse.

His men have their orders. Storm the place - hoping the criminals are unaware, overwhelm them, and save the hostages.

Kyle signals for them to approach the building.

These kind of things are his least favorite parts of his job, but he knows it’s necessary. He can save these people. He can help rid this city of these disgusting criminals.

Kyle gives the next signal, and suddenly his mind switches. All he sees are the studied layouts of the building, the identities of the victims, the mugshots of the suspected criminals.

They quietly file in to find the main room empty except for some busted up crates.

He signals with his head, his gun tightly in his grip, as they make their way silently to the office area up some stairs.

The three victims are tied up in what looks like the manager’s office. They’re unconscious, hardly recognizable under the blood. The girl doesn't look older than 16.

The three men surrounding them freeze. One of the men has their hand raised in the air, a crowbar in his grip, clearly about to strike the wife in the head.

Kyle knows those hands. He knows those eyes. No beard in the world could hide who he is from Kyle.

Then it’s absolute chaos. He orders for his men to follow the fleeing criminals and some to stay behind to help the hostages in only a couple of shouts.

He chases after Stan himself, though, who manages to bust out of a broken window using the crow bar and land on the grating that makes up the upper floor.

“Stan!” Kyle roars. He knows it wouldn’t be out of his duty to shoot him down right then and there, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

Stan kicks a tower of boxes in Kyle’s way, and he trips. He snarls, getting up.

For some reason he rips off his helmet. Maybe if Stan sees it’s Kyle, maybe he’ll stop running.

“Stan!” Kyle has always been that faster one, and he tackles him.

They roll across the floor, and Stan swings a punch.

Kyle instinctively knees him in the stomach, feeling his rage kick in.

Stan really is one of them now. He’s put them through so much - Wendy, Kyle, his parents. For what? So he can beat people with crowbars?

Kyle manages to escape his hold on him, but Stan kicks him in the mouth hard enough to make blood splatter.

He takes ahold of Stan’s hair and slams his head on the corner of a crate.

Stan cries out in pain, causing Kyle to pause.

Stan takes advantage of his and strikes him.

“Kyle, let me go.”

“Let you go?! After what I just saw?!” Kyle is choking him, and Stan is desperately trying to pry his hands away. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“I’m still Stan, Kyle. Trust me. It wasn’t what it looked like.”

Then Stan does the unthinkable. The one thing they agreed to never do after it became the only thing they wanted to do when they were teenagers. He grips Kyle’s hair and brings his mouth to his.

It can't even be called a kiss. Both men’s lips are too busted and torn to even feel anything.

But the sentiment is the same.

Kyle scrambles backwards, grabbing his gun a foot away.

He stands up, almost collapsing in the process, and aims it at Stan, who sits slumped against the crate.

“Kyle, let me go. Trust me,” Stan repeats. “Don’t do this.”

Kyle limps closer, his eye trained on his target.

“Please.” Stan leans back and closes his eyes, swallowing his emotions. He can’t feel the tears making tracks down his dirty face. If he's to die right now, at least it'll be at the hands of his best friend.

Kyle starts to laugh, a bitter and hollow sound. “Fuck you,” he says, and turns around, shoulders shaking. He walks away. “The next time, Marsh, you’re a dead man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay, I told myself I'd dial down the Style, but damn it, do I love some sexual tension. 
> 
> \---- NEXT TIME -----
> 
> Craig and Stan get into some real gangster shit, Craig has to face the consequences of being a dick, Butters is a reasonable human being, Stan and Kyle feel the reality of saying goodbye, and Bebe makes some bad - but not the worst she'll make - decisions.


	4. The integrity of an antique chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a little longer than the last ones. I usually try and churn them out as fast as possible, which I think is just a by-product of my profession, but I really have been wanting to edit these as much as possible. I try to not go more than a week without posting a new chapter, so that's pretty much the schedule (what I really shoot for is no more than 5 days).
> 
> But I digress!
> 
> I have a issue in the end notes that I need help with. 
> 
> Also, I do remember Craig's idea from the first chapter. It just hasn't come up again yet. 
> 
> I have a Tumblr! I'm chatty, take requests, take suggestions, all that fun stuff. It's mediocrefanfics !

Stan shifts his way through the belly of the city’s most notorious bar.

He feels an overwhelming rush of claustrophobia when he notices the lack of windows and realizes he’s underground in the literal sense. Stan can't help but equate it with being buried in a coffin.

The bar is frequently filled with the who’s who of crime and, therefore, is the best place for surveillance. Cartman keeps a rotating shift of men for that reason, and Stan’s been unlucky enough to be assigned it every night this week.

Which, Stan is well aware of, is a horrible idea. The smartest thing would be to send goons of the standard, unknown variety into the pit of Glock-strapped snakes, as opposed to a very well-known “former” member of the city’s finest.

But Stan thinks that’s probably Cartman’s reasoning.

At this point Stan isn’t even sure he cares. After what happened in the warehouse with Kyle, he’s been spending his days drifting through life. He feels almost robotic, how his mind send his body orders, and he does them, without feeling or thought.

Stan wasn’t the one who made the woman and her daughter suffer, though he will admit he didn’t stop it. His cover was about to be blown, so what was he supposed to do? He wasn’t going to strike her hard - she was already completely unconscious. The woman wouldn’t have even felt it.

Besides, who do they even think gave them the tip in the first place?

Stan doesn’t know for sure what would’ve happened if they hadn’t intervened, but he knows it could’ve gotten much worse. He likes to think maybe it makes this whole ordeal worthwhile, especially since they were able to apprehend the others.

As he makes his way through a passageway from the upper bar to what used to be a speakeasy back in the day, his mind goes through the potential list of people he could very well run into.

Best case scenario, it’s his old, estranged friend Kenny. He and Kyle tried desperately to get Kenny to choose a different path in life but to no avail. Kenny always made a point to embrace his demons instead of conquering them.

So they made an agreement with him. Kenny keeps his activities strictly to getting rid of the dangerous, and the police force more or less keeps out of his way. Kenny gets to have his little hitman business, and every so often a criminal disappears off the streets.

Running into Kenny would almost be welcome - Stan could use a familiar face, and he could even use his help.

But no, Stan doesn’t pass the best case scenario in this tunnel.

He passes the worst case scenario.

Stan understands why everyone has a boner for Token Black’s consigliere. Not only is he handsome and tall, he has the ultimate air of not giving a fuck, of perpetually being bored, of something lethal lurking under ice.

He certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

Stan turns his head away slightly towards the wall and tries his best to not make eye contact. Craig passes him in a cloud of cigarette smoke, expensive cologne, and even more expensive liquor.

Stan prematurely lets out of sigh of relief. He thinks maybe, just maybe he can catch a break now and then when he hears the click of a safety.

“God damn it,” he says, spinning around and grabbing his gun at his waist.

“You pull that trigger and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground,” Craig says in his flat, grating voice.

Stan believes him, too.

“Tucker, cut the shit. We don’t have a problem.” Stan knows his best way out of here is negotiation. Besides, he’s known Craig for a long time and knows there’s nothing more than he hates than attention.

And nothing would draw more attention than shooting one of Cartman’s men in the middle of this place.

Craig says nothing, narrowing his eyes.

“Cartman isn’t very happy with you and your men anyway,” Stan reasons. “What happens if you shoot one of his men?”

“Whoa, they must’ve not taught negotiation at whatever pig sty you and Broflovski crawled out of,” Craig snips. “Why the fuck would Cartman avenge you? Everyone knows he uses you as a god damn mine canary half the time.”

“Oh come on, you’re smarter than this. You think Cartman gives a shit about any of us? It’s his pride that would make him annihilate all of you.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

Stan can tell by the way Craig clenches his jaw he’s admitting to himself Stan has a point. “Come on, Craig, Cartman is fucking us all in the ass. Let's not go ripping each other's throats.” Stan lowers his gun, hoping to hell he's really gotten through to the consigliere. Craig is an asshole, but he's also a man of reason. 

Craig’s stony expression falters before he lowers his own gun. The two men stand there motionless, caught in each other’s orbit.

“Don’t let me catch you in here again, Marsh, or-”

“I’m a dead man, yeah, yeah, got it,” Stan says, backing away and eventually turning around to finish his shift as unseen as possible.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bebe is not sure if she trusts the integrity of this chair. It’s an antique after all - in fact, it came with the office.

Can it hold the weight of two people? Probably.

Can it hold the weight of two people and the force of Bebe riding Clyde while he sits in it? Bebe guesses they’ll find out.

“This is such a bad idea,” she manages to get out between moans. “Such a bad idea.”

“It doesn’t feel like a bad idea.” Clyde grins underneath her and pulls her down to kiss her.

“You realize this is the opposite of what you should be doing for therapy, right?”

“What’s wrong with this?”

Bebe doesn’t know if he’s being facetious or not, so she focuses on the bounce of her hips. Clyde tilts his head against the back of his chair and grips her thighs until she’s pretty sure he’ll leave bruises. His breathing starts to get heavy, and he pulls her close to him, hips jerking.

When they’re done, they scramble to put their clothes back on.

“So.. how do you feel?” she asks, not entirely ironically.

“Better than I have in a long time, Doc,” Clyde says, winking.

Bebe watches him, unrest brewing in the pit of her stomach. It’s been a couple of weeks since they met, and Bebe knows the hole she’s digging is just getting bigger and bigger. But there’s an allure to it, a beauty Bebe can’t deny. For once she actually cares about something again. Something is making her heart pump and her blood rush, and Bebe is all for it.

It's not just that Clyde is dangerous, showing her glimpse into a world her white bread life so far hasn't had before, but he's also... Bebe doesn't know how to put it. Sweet and lovable. Trusting. Dumber than a rock, but deep down, _good_. But at the same time she knows he could probably kill her if he wanted, and that's what's so thrillng.

She just can’t get wrapped up in him, that’s all.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Craig feels insufferably hot. He still tastes the bitter drip in the back of his throat, but he can feel the crash incoming, his brain’s dopamine struggling to equilibrate.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Clyde asks, for once entirely more sober than Craig.

Craig doesn’t answer. He just sighs and tries to unclench his stiff jaw.

“It’s just… you’ve been kind on a bender lately,” Clyde continues, slowly, like he’s defusing a bomb.

“He’s heartbroken over Tweek,” Tricia says out of nowhere, appearing beside him along with Red.

“Don’t you two have any better place on your days off than your workplace?” Craig asks, sliding his eyes towards them.

“You can’t blame anyone but yourself,” Red snips sharply, always the more blunt one out of the two girls.

“Wait, you know about what happened? How?” Craig asks, increasingly more interested. “Did he talk about me?”

Clyde scoffs, accompanied by Red and Tricia’s “oh my god”s.

“Anyway, there’s your lover boy over there,” Tricia says, pointing to the direction of some business men.

Tweek is sitting in an older man’s lap, his arm slung around him. He laughs at something he says, before sensing Craig’s eyes on him. Their eyes meet, and Craig feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

He can’t quite read Tweek’s face, but it looks like a mixture of hurt and indignation. They haven’t talked since that night, and it’s been a couple of weeks. Craig’s not sure how someone who so quickly waltzed their way into his life has left such a big hole, but he feels it nonetheless.

Maybe it’s the “what if”, he thinks to himself.

The other man tilts Tweek’s chin towards him, forcing his attention back. Craig can read “sorry, I got distracted” on Tweek’s lips as he resumes acting interested in whatever pointless droll the man is going on about it.

His face reddens when he realizes the three others are staring at him.

“You know, you could apologize,” Tricia says much more softly than before. “I know you’re worried about getting hurt, but Tweek’s a really nice guy, Craig.”

Her words ring in Craig’s ears.

_I know you’re worried about getting hurt._

Craig feels like he inevitably hurts and corrupts those around him, but what if his biggest fear is losing another person in his life?

Tricia still talks to him, but he feels guilty. He got a chance at a moral life - and their parents died because of it. Tricia never got hers, and Craig worries about the day she gets caught up in the whirlpool of the mafia, sucked in to the bottom because someone wants revenge against Craig.

But in the end Craig didn’t force her to work at a strip club, and he has to trust that she can take care of herself. He didn’t force his dad to sell meth or his mom to let it happen. They chose that.

And maybe, if Tweek chooses Craig, then he should just take a chance he won’t end up regretting it.

Craig ruffles Tricia’s hair like he used to do when they were kids.

Maybe Craig really does deserve to be happy.

The question is whether or not Tweek will forgive him.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Leave her alone, Kenny, she’s a grown woman,” Kevin sighs over the phone. Kenny thinks his voice sounds much more hoarse than before, almost to the point Kenny has trouble understanding him.

Inhaling chemicals will do that to your throat.

“This is _our_ baby sister,” Kenny says desperately. “You want her to end up like mom?”

“Look, man, I’m busy, but I really think you should stay out of it.”

Kenny doesn’t even bother saying bye. He hangs up and throws his phone at the armchair.

“Fucking asshole,” he hisses as he lays his head in Butters lap.

He plays with Kenny’s hair, brushing it out of his face. Kenny can read the hesitation on Butters’s face. “Go ahead and say it,” he groans.

“I think he’s right.” Butters says it so quickly the words rush together. “Come on, Ken, she told you _in private_ she’s okay.”

Kenny turns his head away like a petulant child. “She doesn’t know what’s right for her.”

“Ken, do you not hear how kinda fucked up that is? She’s an adult.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve had to raise her, Leo. Our childhood _really_ fucking sucked.”

“Yeah, I do understand. Mine wasn't exactly a field day either.” There’s a bitter note in his voice.

Kenny reaches up and strokes his face. Butters didn't talk much about the personal hell he was stuck in growing up, but Kenny knew bits and pieces. “I'm sorry, baby. That's not what I meant.”

He leans up and kisses him with an open mouth. Kenny tangles his fingers in the back of Butters hair, forcing his head back and moving his lips to his throat.

“Kenny, stop.”

Kenny instantly pulls back, feeling like cold water has been dumped on him.

“I want you to talk about this, okay? You don’t need to avoid it.”

His face is too earnest for Kenny to be annoyed at him, and he groans.

“Fine.” Kenny has been avoiding telling Butters his sister is being used as leverage against him, but he realizes how unfair that is to his boyfriend. “I’ve got to tell you two things.”

He grabs Butters hands in his, clasped tightly, and Butters gives him a quizzical and apprehensive look.

“First, I want to leave this lifestyle. I want to be with you. I want to be the man you deserve, if you’ll have me.”

Butters’s face lights up, and he kisses Kenny with enough force they almost tumble off the couch. “Of course! Oh, gee, I wanted to talk to you about this, too. I was thinking about looking for jobs in Hawaii, and it’d be a good place for you to lay low and… Oh no, what’s the next part?” Butters has always been sensitive and empathetic, and Kenny’s change in mood as he gets ready to tell him causes him to wring his hands.

“Cartman is…. using my sister to get me to do things.”

“Like what things?”

“Like, dangerous jobs.”

Butters stares at him as his words process and then starts to breathe short and fast, on the verge of hyperventilating. He doesn’t often get overwhelmed, tending to be an action-oriented person instead of someone who breaks down, but Kenny realizes he just lifted him up to slam him back down. “Leo, calm down. It’ll be okay.”

He takes his hands in his before Butters pulls his own fingers off.

“But why? Why would he marry your sister just to control you?” Kenny can tell Butters is trying hard not to cry, so he shifts his body to hold him. He strokes his back, hoping he can’t hear Kenny’s own pounding heartbeat.

Kenny never thought he’d find love like he has with Butters. He’s his sunshine. When Kenny was at the edge of losing his humanity, Butters helped him find it again. “I don’t know what to do, Leo.”

Butters sits up. “It doesn’t change the fact she told you she was okay.” He takes a breath, as if he’s about to say something else but stops.

“You don’t think- Leo! Karen would never betray me!” Kenny feels sick at the notion, sudden anger coursing through him that Butters would even put the thought in his head. 

”I’m just saying - I think… I think she’s with him by choice, Kenny. I mean, marrying someone would be a lot of trouble to go to just to enslave someone’s brother.”

Kenny looks at Butters in his too-big pink sweater, hanging off his shoulders. His fists are balled up in resolution, and he doesn’t shy from looking Kenny straight in the eyes. Despite his sweet and soft appearance, Kenny often thinks Butters is stronger than him in a lot of ways. “Psychology isn’t my field of medicine, but often… people who have bad experiences with their fathers tend to fall for guys who… have very strong personalities.”

Kenny raises his eyebrow.

“You know what I mean! Not all strong personalities are bad. But like, sometimes they are and… maybe that’s why your sister is with Cartman. And, well, Kenny, Cartman has known Karen for a long time, and you know, you said yourself he has a really good relationship with his mom, and…”

“You are not about to compare my sister to Liane.” Kenny crosses his arms. “That’s too far.”

He feels peeved when Butters has to stifle a laugh. “Oh, Ken, I won’t go there then. Well, either way…” He crawls into Kenny’s lap. Kenny buries his face in the crook of his neck. Butters always smells like bleach and strawberries and some sort of fake vanilla, and it’s so wholly him, Kenny can’t help but sigh. “I’ll wait for you. Whatever you decide to do.”

Kenny doesn’t know what to say, but as they begin to kiss again, and as Kenny slips Butters’s sweater over his head, he takes comfort in knowing where his future lies.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kyle doesn’t dare tell anyone else what happened except for Heidi.

He decides to tell her on the way to his apartment, hoping the crowd of people will help keep their conversation as private as possible. Sometimes things are best hidden by putting them in plain sight.

She doesn’t know what to say at first. “Are you sure that’s what was really going on?” she asks, putting a hand on Kyle’s arm.

Kyle feels miffed at her question. “Yes, I’m sure.” He wonders if she doesn’t believe him. “I can’t believe Stan would do something like that. Heidi, they’re _still_ in the hospital.”

“I mean, for Stan to do something like that, he’d have to have good reason, right? He must be on to something. Do you think he’s the one who tipped us off?”

“I mean, he could be, but how long before Cartman gets wise? He’ll _execute_ Stan, Heidi, and then this will be all for nothing.” Kyle shakes his head. It pounds with ever step on the sidewalk. He realizes he can’t remember the last time he slept soundly. “It doesn’t excuse his actions anyway.”

Heidi is quiet, her long, brown hair whipping in the winter wind.

“You disagree, don’t you?” Kyle asks accusingly.

“It’s not that I disagree, Kyle, I just … We’re closer to getting to Cartman than ever before. And I think we owe Stan a little bit of grace.”

Her words make Kyle stop in his tracks.

“I don’t want to hate him, Heidi.”

“No one is asking you to.”

Kyle doesn’t know whether or not to tell Heidi Stan kissed him. It was obviously just a ploy to catch Kyle off guard, but it still nibbles at his brain constantly. Heidi would surely be pissed, and Kyle doesn’t know if he can heap more onto this fire right now. “I miss him so much,” he says, so quietly it’s almost drowned out by the street noise.

“I know,” Heidi says. She takes Kyle’s hand. “Maybe there’s a way we can help him. Or at least tell him we’re on his side.”

Kyle thinks about it. Maybe if he can catch Stan one more time, he can talk sense in to him. Or at least let him know Kyle doesn’t hate him.

“I’m not going to stop looking for him,” Kyle says. “I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---- NEXT TIME -----
> 
> Some good, quality Creek fluff and then some good, quality Creek drama, Clyde makes a proposition, Kenny gets pushed around by Cartman some, and Kyle finds Stan AGAIN.
> 
> Okay, but real talk, I have two versions - one that's considerably less Style, and one that has Style smut, so if you feel a particular way, then let me know, because I'm divided. On one hand, I feel like a lot of Style is overindulgent and maybe a little left field in this story? But then also it might be an interesting element and also.. smut, so -


	5. A current too strong to resist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Creek-heavy chapter, so if you're a Creek fan, which you probably are, then today is your lucky day!
> 
> I had to up the rating because I officially describe a dick, and you know, that's my criteria for an explicit rating. 
> 
> Even though this chapter is considerably fluffier in most aspects than the others, the violence is also pretty graphic.
> 
> Guys, thanks so much for the support and love. It really makes me smile. I really do appreciate you. I hope what I write keeps making all of you happy! I almost feel like I have new friends in my life haha
> 
> I have a Tumblr! I'm chatty, I take suggestions, and I fulfill requests! It's mediocrefanfics ! Come be mah friend

Tweek can sense the man behind him. Nervous children grow into intuitive adults, and Tweek is no exception. Despite his awareness of the consigliere in the doorway, he continues clocking out, refusing to acknowledge Craig on any other terms but his own.

_Don’t get all wrapped up in how handsome he is or how smooth he talks_ , Tweek thinks to himself. _Make him work for it. You’re a good actor. You can do this._

He turns around with a huff of aggravation. “You’re not supposed to be back here, you know?”

Craig is leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. He's not wearing his usual slick suit, but instead has on jeans and a Broncos sweatshirt. If Tweek ever thought Craig's attractiveness had to do with his dapper appearance, he's now proven wrong - there's still something so breathtaking gorgeous about him.

“I know. I wanted to see you,” he says lowly, in measured tones. His eyes don't waver from Tweek.

Tweek hurriedly unties his apron, getting the strings even more tangled somehow. “Well, here I am. And I’d really like to go home, so it’s nice to see you, but….” He pulls the left string just to pull the knot tighter. “God damn it.”

In just a few strides Craig has his apron strings in his hands and deftly undoes them. Tweek lets out a squeak at his close proximity and hopes to God Craig didn't hear it. 

“Listen, can we talk?” Craig asks, putting a broad hand on his arm. His voice is soft, kind. It catches Tweek off guard, and he looks away quickly, pushing his hair behind his ear.

_Fight it, Tweek, don’t give in._

“Y- you ghosted me." Tweek's voice creaks, and it only pisses him off more. There's a million more things he wants to say, but Craig's presence is smothering in all the right ways, so he figures it's probably best for him to get out of there.

He turns around to grab his bag off the break room counter and moves to push by Craig.

“I was scared.”

Tweek stops, dropping his bag.

“And I assure you I’ve never said those words outloud in my life,” Craig says with bitterness. “I was scared of the both of us getting hurt. I was - I am - a fucking coward.”

Tweek looks up at him in amazement. He doesn't know what to say.

“I’m sorry, and if you’ll forgive me, I’d like to get to know you.”

Tweek knows he's done for, hook, line, and sinker. He expected Craig to make some move on him, some attempt to get him back in his bed. The last thing he expected was for the consigliere to bare his heart and soul.

“God damn it, Craig,” he hears himself sigh. He fights the urge to twitch. “F-fine, but we can’t go too fast. I’m still not in a place for a serious relationship!”

Craig grins that closed-lip smile of his and embraces Tweek. It’s a sweet hug, more friendly than romantic, and Tweek buries his face in his sweatshirt. It smells like those fancy laundry scent tablets that are completely unnecessary.

“I know it’s really late, and you’re probably tired, but do you want to come over and maybe watch a movie and talk?” Craig asks, his voice rumbling in Tweek’s ear pressed against his chest.

“That sounds great,” he answers. “As long as you don’t mind me smelling like food.”

Tweek knows he should feel defeated, but he doesn’t - for the first time in a long time, he feels in control of something. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Wait, so you can bake, too?" Craig has his arms wrapped around Tweek, their limbs tangled underneath the blanket.

They’re watching When Harry Met Sally, but the familiar story is lost on the two as they chat through the whole film.

“Mhm,” Tweek nods. “I used to use my parents’ cafe kitchen all the time growing up. I’m particularly good at sweets.”

“Impressive. Honestly, I’ve never been that great at the womanly arts. My dad tried to raise me as macho as possible. _What_?”

Tweek’s face is scrunched up. “Don’t say ‘womanly arts’. That’s kind of offensive, don’t you think?”

Craig laughs, and it comes out in one long monotone sound. “Okay, okay.  I’m pretty sure Tricia would beat the shit out of me if she heard me say that anyway.”

“Oh! Speaking of Tricia, you know who her friend that just showed back up in town, the one with the scary brother…”

“Karen? Also, Kenny is not that scary, but go on.”

“Yeah, Karen! You know who she’s marrying?”

“Who?” Craig asks, raising an eyebrow. By Tweek’s excitable tone, he knows it has to be someone interesting.

“Eric Cartman.”

“What?” Craig starts to laugh. “Why? How? …. Why?”

“Mhm, it’s true,” Tweek says, nodding his head quickly, as if Craig doesn't believe him. “I uh, know, one of Cartman’s higher ups and he was talking about it to some friends.”

Craig is about to ask if he knows him in the Biblical sense, but something dawns on him. “Holy shit, Kenny.”

Tweek looks at him confused. “Yeah, what about him?”

“We hire him out all the time for shit. He’s probably in alliance with Cartman now. “ Craig thinks about the ramifications of this. Has Kenny been feeding Cartman information about their going ons all along? "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Craig realizes he’s phased out for a second, and he focuses back on the blonde in front of him. “Tweek, I have another question. Which one of your jobs do you hate the most?”

Tweek knits his eyebrows together in concentration. “Mmm- I like all of my jobs okay, even the club because I like.. the ah, attention, I guess, but if I had to choose... escorting?”

“How much do you usually make?” Craig realizes that’s a little bit of a too personal question. “Sorry, but there’s a reason I’m asking.”

“Depending on uh, how much time,” Tweek clears his throat nervously, “I spend with them, around $900.”

Craig stares at him. “I’m in the wrong business.”

“No, you’re not. That’s the price for spending time with them _overnight_ , which I do not do very often, but…”

Craig nods his head to assure him he doesn’t have to go further into detail. “If I paid you to be an informant, would you be able to um, stick to purely being a paid _date_?”

Tweek grins. “Alright, I think I can do that. You’d be amazed how much I hear in a night.”

Craig grins back. He wants to kiss him, but he’s nervous, a feeling he had forgotten in all these years.

He settles on nuzzling his face in Tweek's soft hair. “Babe, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kenny gasps, the sickening sensation of choking on his blood causing him to retch a little. One of the men swings an aluminum club, connecting with Kenny’s jaw and shattering it.

_Come on_ , Kenny thinks. _Just let me die_.

This is all Cartman’s fault - a sick trap of his - and the thought makes Kenny rage, even despite being on the brink of the laughable excuse of his death.

Kenny was just supposed to find the hideout and send the coordinates to Cartman, no big deal. He failed to mention the place is strapped with motion-triggered alarms in every corner.

Cartman got his location details, but Kenny is paying the price.

_Kenny hears Karen’s sobbing through the bedroom wall. He slips out of bed, feet silently hitting the floor, and sneaks out of his room._

_He carefully pushes Karen’s bedroom door open. Her face is buried in her knees, drawn up to her chest. She looks up frightened at the creak._

_Kenny quickly crosses over and climbs onto her bed, wrapping his arms around her. “It’ll be okay,” he coos into the dark._

_He feels her little arms wrap around him, her warm tears falling onto him._

_Suddenly through the doorway there’s a glowing white light, casting shadows across the room._

_Karen doesn’t seem to notice, wiping her eyes with tiny fists._

_Kenny sighs. “I promise things will be okay,” he says, hugging her tight before getting up._

_He walks through the doorway, the pull like a current too strong to resist._

_Kenny steps into the warm light, feeling his soul and his corporeal form separate smoothly._

_Fucking finally, he thinks._

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Stan limps his way up the stairs, trying not to come into contact with the mildewed wallpaper. This is one of the only places in town that require no lease, no signature - completely illegal of course but convenient for Stan in his current situation.

Of course, the place is in dismal condition, full of rats and mold. Stan stuffs cotton into his ears at night because he has to sleep on the floor, and he doesn’t want roaches crawling in them and laying eggs.

It’s no surprise to him when he makes it up the flight and his door has been kicked wide open. It barely had a lock, the door barely more than a plank of wood. What surprises him is who’s looking out the window over the gritty skyline.

The sunset makes Kyle’s hair glow like fire.

_“I think your hair is pretty,” Stan whispers in his ear. The red has been such a consistent color in his life just as much as Kyle’s presence. “You shouldn’t listen to Cartman.”_

_Kyle doesn’t say anything. He bites Stan’s shoulder as he pumps himself, bucking against Stan’s thigh. Stan wants so desperately to reach over and take care of it for him. He wants Kyle to whimper underneath his touch, but he knows the moment he makes a move, Kyle will shrink back, pull his pants back on, leave._

_“Can I kiss you?” he asks desperately, yearning for any physical contact at all. He’d do anything to feel Kyle’s warm mouth against his._

_Kyle shakes his head._

“Kyle?” Stan knows either his fight or flight should’ve kicked in, but neither does.

He can only stand there in shock.

Kyle turns around. He never has been tall, but he’s always been broad-shouldered, well-proportioned. Amongst the dirty hovel Stan currently resides, Kyle’s usual air of put-togetherness is even more noticeable. His hair neatly clipped at the sides, his spotless button up shirt, his really nice, bright teeth he denies are veneers even though Stan remembers them being a lot bigger until he got “dental surgery for a couple of cavities” a few years back.

Stan knows he’s a stark contrast with his bruised up face, partially covered by his straggled beard.

In only a few steps Kyle takes Stan by the shoulders and slams him against the wall.

_“Please,” he whispers. Kyle opens up his eyes and brown meets blue._

_He moves slowly, so painfully slow, and catches Stan’s lips in his._

_They fit together so perfectly, and before either one knows it, they’re making out, all tongue and teeth._

_Their heavy breathing fills the dark room, and Stan stifles a moan when Kyle pushes his hand out of the way and starts to jerk Stan off._

_Stan reaches over for Kyle’s dick, a completely new sensation in his hand. It feels like his own, maybe a little more curved._

_Stan is circumcised, too, a by-product of the medical myth, so that’s no different, but the way Kyle’s is thick is foreign to him. It’s hot against his skin, and Stan’s hand gets sticky with the rush of pre-cum._

_Kyle pulls away from the kiss and with his free hand grabs tightly to Stan’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet._

For a second, Stan feels like Kyle is staring into his soul.

“Why - How did you find me?” Kyle’s silence is wigging Stan out.

“Easy. I knew you were still in the city. We lived together, so I knew you weren’t still staying there. I know how much you make, obviously, so I reasoned that together, along with basic knowledge from oh, decades of friendship. None of the legit places had your name or license number on record, so I knew it had to be somewhere like here.” Kyle’s voice is flat, entirely too uncharacteristic for his usual firecracker self. “Those kinds of places are found in this neighborhood, and this place is well-known for illegal habitation - seriously, Stan, there’s raids here all the time - so I staked out a couple of nights across the street.”

“It was that simple?” Stan asks, feeling a mixture of pride for his friend and overwhelment.

“Stan, I am a _detective_. The city’s best detective.” Kyle squeezes his shoulders hard enough to make Stan wince.

“So are you here to arrest me?” Kyle’s grip loosens.

_“Oh god,” Kyle says under his breath, the stony look on his face completely melting into something entirely different. “Oh god, Stan.”_

_Stan feels his own dick jerk in Kyle’s hand as he watches his best friend shuts his eyes tight, mouth opening slightly as he desperately tries to hold back his moans. Stan pumps him harder, faster._

_“Say my name like that again,” he whispers hotly in Kyle’s ear, nipping it. He knows it’s brash, but he’s so close to the edge, and he just wants to hear Kyle moan his name_.

“No, I’m not. I just wanted to ask you some questions.”

That’s never a good thing for a cop to say.

“Fine.”

“Are you the one who sent us the tip? About the warehouse?” Kyle sharply asks, pushing Stan harder into the wall.

“Yes.” Stan may be mistaken but he thinks he sees a flicker of relief in Kyle’s eyes.

“Stan… Stan, have you killed anyone?” Kyle’s tough cop facade falters along with his voice.

“You know you should never ask a cop that question.” Stan keeps his own voice neutral, empty.

“Last question, how much longer, Stan?”

“Before what?”

Kyle looks at him with annoyance. “Until you quit this.”

_“Stan,” Kyle moans, voice high and hoarse. His entire body wracks with shudders as his dick twitches, spilling all over Stan’s hand. Stan wipes it quickly on his half way pulled down pajama pants and tangles his fingers in Kyle’s hair, gasping into his lips._

_Kyle moves his hand up and down Stan’s shaft harder, rubbing a thumb over the head. Stan muffles a cry into the pillow as he comes._

“Until I can take Cartman down.”

Kyle knits his eyebrows together, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean by down?”

“Until he’s in custody. Until he’s dead.” Stan’s not sure what Kyle doesn’t understand about this - he won’t quit until the job is done.

“Let me help you.”

“Absolutely not,” Stan immediately retorts. “I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire. That’s the point of me going off grid.”

Kyle lets go of him, taking a deep breath. Stan knows he’s doing his best to swallow his anger, and he puts a hand on his best friend’s arm appreciatively. “Listen, Kyle, I know you worry about me, but sitting in the police station all day, arriving at crime scenes _after_ they happen - that’s never going to stop Cartman.”

“I just want you to stop running away from me,” Kyle says, rushed, realizing he just spilled more than he wanted to. “I’m not going to get in your way.”

_Kyle gets up out of the bed quickly, pulling his clothes back on._

_“Kyle, where are you going?” Stan asks, already knowing the answer and hating himself for pushing too hard._

_“Home.” He hears Kyle’s held back tears in his voice._

_“Why? It doesn’t have to be like this, dude. Let’s just stop with the dramatics.” Stan reaches for Kyle’s form, but he shoves his hand away. Stan holds it like he just burnt it._

_“I can’t deal with this right now. Not with all the shit with Heidi and Cartman, and the entrance exams, and no, I can’t even think about it right now, Stan.” He searches blindly for his wallet and keys._

_“How is this fair to me?” Stan is all of a sudden full of his lightening anger, sharp and hot and fast._

Stan looks at Kyle, a million messages passing back and forth to each other. “What do you want from me?”

“I just want my best friend back,” Kyle says drearily. “I want to hear from you, I want to talk to you, Stan.”

“Kyle, what if someone has seen you here? Cartman has eyes everywhere.”

“I'm not an idiot. I made sure no one was around when I went up here. So what if he does? Fuck him.”

“Fuck him? You know very well what he’ll do to me if he finds out I’m a double agent, Kyle. He’ll kill me. He’ll fucking make me get on my knees and blow my brains out in the middle of town square.” Stan shoves Kyle, surprised at his own anger.

But Stan is absolutely correct - Kyle has endangered himself and Stan and the whole operation completely.

“I won’t let that happen.”

“How, Kyle? This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. I didn’t want you to risk all of your lives for me.”

“Well, you should’ve thought about that harder, Stan! We love you! We’re your friends!”

_His words cause Kyle to go completely still. He sits down on the bed, the moonlight from the window illuminating his face._

_“What do you think will happen, Stan, if we go further with this? **Happy ever after**? You think our parents are gonna be **thrilled**? What happens when all the pressure gets to us with graduating and college and so many things are changing right now, Stan, and I can’t lose you, okay? I’m afraid of losing you.” _

“Okay,” Stan says. “You’re right.”

Deep down, this is what Stan has hoped for during this whole time. If he ever doubted he’s loved, he knows now.

“Wa-wait, you mean it?” Kyle’s stance relaxes.

“Yeah, dude. I should’ve known you and Wendy wouldn’t give up that easily.” Stan smiles sadly to himself. “I still don’t want either one of you involved, but I’ll check in, okay?”

Kyle nods, the emotions and energy drained out of him. “Okay. But it has to be frequent.”

“Fine. And you have to let me come to you. We have to do this carefully.” Stan wraps his arms around Kyle in a brotherly hug. He feels a little bad about getting Kyle’s nice shirt dirty, but part of him doesn’t care at the familiar embrace of his best friend.

“I know this is a weird time to say this, but uh, sorry I kissed you.”

Kyle pulls away, annoyed. “God, you know, you could’ve just acted like that never happened.”

“Oh, and I’m supposed to forget you smashed my head into a crate?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

Stan feels the laughter wrack his body. He tries to control it as it threatens to dissolve into sobs.

Kyle laughs, too, bringing Stan back into another hug, one that lingers a little longer, a little softer.

_“Hey,” Stan says softly, “you’ll never lose me, okay?”_

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I mean, it’s not my fault, right?” Clyde says, wiping his tears with the last kleenex in the box. “I didn’t know better. I was just a child. Right?”

“Right.” Bebe nods sympathetically. “It’s natural you’d feel guilty - I’d be worried if you didn’t. But I think it’s important in this point in your life to move on, like we’ve talked about. Have you been repeating the mantras I taught you?”

Clyde nods, sniffling. “Also… there’s something else I feel guilty about.”

“Go ahead.”

He hesitates for a second. “I… beat someone up. Like, really bad, Doc.”

Bebe swallows hard. She wonders if this is what priests feel like. “Why did you do that?”

Clyde looks sheepish, a silly contrast to the topic at hand. “He… tried to ambush some of the men who work for me, so I had to, as we say, _teach him a lesson_?” He says the last part like a question.

“How did you feel during and after?” Bebe knows in these situations it’s best to return to professionalism, follow the text books. Ethically, she should turn Clyde in, but Bebe already got used to the fact she'd never betray him. 

“Well, during I felt… good? It’s like this adrenaline rush, you have no idea.” Clyde pantomimes what Bebe assumes is hitting someone over the head with a fist. “But then I felt horrible. I felt like a monster. I mean, that’s what I am, right?”

Anyone else and Bebe would’ve thought this statement was just fishing for pity, but the way Clyde’s voice breaks in the end makes her heart weak. “No, Clyde, you’re not a monster. I’m not… going to condone what you did, and I while I officially suggest you turn yourself into the authorities, I think at the very least maybe you can do something to help out his family.”

“Damn, you’re like my… cricket,” Clyde says, a smile creeping over his face.

“... You mean, Jiminy Cricket?”

“Yeah!” Clyde leans over his knees, resting his elbows on them. His doe-like brown eyes are suddenly earnest, intense. “Doctor Stevens -”

“I told you you can just call me Bebe if that’s more comfortable,” she says, unnerved by the look on his face.

“You have a boyfriend, right?” He points to one of the larger photos of her and Pip.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. We don’t talk as much as we should.”

“Then you should leave him. For, you know, me.”

Bebe feels her face grow hot, and she shakes her head. “Clyde, there are so many reasons I can’t do that. For one you’re my patient -”

“You have a partner, right? I could see them instead.”

Bebe sighs. She been wanting this so badly, the shadows of this situation drifting in and out of her consciousness right before sleep. “You only want this because I’m a strong female figure in your life. We’ve discussed this. You know, I knew I should’ve never had sex with you.”

Clyde looks hurt, on the precarious verge of tears. “So what if you’re a strong figure? You’re good for me. Healthy for me. Bebe, I never get to meet girls like you.” He reaches for her hand, which she neither draws away or takes his.

“We’re too different. Our lifestyles are too different.” Bebe can’t believe she’s even considering this right now.

“You don’t have to decide right now, okay?” Clyde stands up, Bebe instinctually following to lead him out.

He turns around before she opens the door and kisses her, hands arching her back ever so slightly. When he pulls away, she’s breathless. “Just please don’t break my heart,” he says quietly. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Craig always insists on being the one who drives. Not only is it because he’s kind of a control freak, but being in a vehicle makes them surprisingly vulnerable to unexpected gun fire, and Craig is the most capable, in his opinion, of getting them out of there in one piece.

Granted, this is just to meet Token for drinks - business talk strictly forbidden - but Craig feels like he can never be too careful.

“She’s got this long, blonde hair and tits like - “ Clyde waves his hands far from his chest in an arc. “But that’s just not it, Craig. She’s… nice and smart.”

Craig looks sideways at his friend. “Oh wow, she’s _nice and smart_?”

“Shut up! You know what I mean.” Clyde throws his head back against the seat and breathes deeply.

“Are you love sick?” Craig asks incredulously, eyebrow raised.

“I don’t want to hear it from you of all people. How is Tweek? I haven’t seen him around for awhile.”

Craig sighs. “He’s fine, just working all the time.”

“And he won’t let you just pay off the debt for him?”

Craig shakes his head. “Nope. He’ll trade me information sometimes, but hell, Clyde, he only lets me pay for dinner half the time.”

Craig’s phone vibrates in the cup holder. “Speak of the devil,” he says to himself, fishing it out. “Hey.”

Clyde grins at the obvious nervous blush across Craig’s face.

At first Craig only hears heavy breathing. “Tweek?”

“Craig!”

Craig knows that voice - full of pain and panic. It's the same one that haunts him when he thinks too hard about what he's done. Tweek tries to choke out more words.

“Tweek, deep breaths! What’s wrong?”

“You have to get me to the clinic,” he says in what sounds like through gritted teeth. “The motherfuckers shot me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \----- NEXT TIME -----
> 
> Tweek and Craig deal with well, Tweek being shot, Kenny gets an interesting message, Stan's conflict with Kyle is anything but over thanks to Cartman, and Bebe makes her decision.


	6. Some people paint their sadness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter six!
> 
> I actually described clothes, guys, CLOTHES. I am so bad at being creative with clothing - if you've noticed, everyone pretty much wears the same thing in every story. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for all the continued support. Ya'll are so sweet :)
> 
> There's a chance this thing will be shorter than 13 chapters - just because I keep posting longer chapters than I meant to, so the story will end up ending at like, 10 or 11 chapters. Maybe I'll just write additional stuff, an epilogue, etc.
> 
> ALSO not to make this tremendously long, but I almost always have songs that inspire what I write. I'm thinking about making a Spotify account for my fanfiction, and then creating playlists with them. Would anyone be interested in me sharing it? Is that a thing people do?
> 
> Anyway!
> 
> I have a Tumblr! It's mediocrefanfics . Come talk to me!

When Craig and Clyde make it to Tweek’s apartment, the door is still wide open, spilling the smell of incense and coffee out into the stairwell. Immediately Craig calls out Tweek’s name and lurches forward through the doorway, but is stopped by Clyde, a firm hand on his shoulder.

Craig is being careless.

Clyde pulls his gun from underneath is jacket and goes first, clearing the area. The room spins, Craig’s world tilted on edge as he makes his way to the bathroom, following the occasional splatter of blood.

Tweek is slumped in the shower, his face pallid and grey. His hand is weakly on his shoulder, where blood blossoms across his T-shirt.

His eyes are closed except a sliver of white.

“Fuck,” Craig hears himself say as he climbs in. He rips Tweek’s shirt off as carefully as one can, Tweek’s body heavy and limp in his arms. He stirs ever so slightly.

“They only got him in the shoulder muscle,” Craig says. “He’s out because of the pain. Come on, help me hoist him up.” Tweek is lithe, but he’s still a grown man, so Clyde helps lift him up until Craig can carry him princess style, his arm a support rail under his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t we just call for an ambulance?” Clyde asks, out of breath, helping Craig make it out of the apartment and down the stairs.

“In this fucking city? It’ll be less time to get him to Doc’s. Besides, they’ll start asking too many questions. I’m not looking to fuck in a prison trailer, Clyde.” Craig is all hard edges right now, but Clyde gets it. It’s how he reacts to fear.

Craig knows they’re racing time against the blood loss. Right now it doesn’t look as bad as it could be, but Tweek is getting paler every second, and Craig knows these situations can turn quickly.

They make it to the car, and for once Craig lets Clyde drive so he can hold Tweek in his lap. He smears blood on the window as Craig practically cradles him.

“Come on, baby, keep it together,” he whispers in Tweek’s ear. Tweek moves slightly, slowly opening his eyes just a little. They’re hazy and struggle to focus on Craig.

“Why do you think they shot him?” Clyde asks, on the edge of his seat, white knuckling the steering wheel.

Craig doesn’t say anything at first. He clenches his teeth, hating the way his eyes burn. “They shot him close up, but in a place that wouldn’t kill him,” Craig says.

He holds Tweek’s weak hand in his, bringing it up to his lips. “This is a message.”

“To who?”

“To me.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The first thing Tweek notices when he comes to is the overwhelming burning sensation in his left shoulder. Then the brightness of the room and the metallic smell of blood. Finally, his eyes focus enough, and he realizes he’s in some sort of makeshift clinic, propped up in a sitting position on a table.

Almost instantly Craig is beside him, his arms around him.

“Easy, easy,” a blonde man says, coming from the back room. “I’m trying to keep it as tightly wrapped as possible.” He’s small and looks like he should be in a sunny field wearing a flower crown, not the scrubs he’s wearing now, a stethoscope slung around his neck.

Tweek is in pain, but it’s dulling and the room shakes dimly back and forth. He feels weighed down to the table and really, all Tweek wants to do is go back to sleep, but a voice in his head tells him he should find out what’s going on.

He leans into Craig, looking up at him inquiringly. The doctor is cheerfully checking Tweek’s heartbeat but he can barely feel the cold stethoscope on his skin.

Craig brushes the hair out of Tweek’s face, his eyes dry but set like stone. His hands are shaking, and Tweek wonders if it's out of fear or anger.

“Someone shot you, honey. Do you remember?” he asks quietly.

The words bounce around in Tweek's mind, but an answer never manages to reach his lips. He realizes a large chunk of time has passed since Craig even asked the question, and Tweek feels inexplicably self-conscious about it, so he buries his face in Craig's arm.

Tweek’s ears pick up the doctor’s response - an apology of some sorts, overdid it on the oxycodone, Tweek should be back at it by tomorrow.

Tweek wants to tell Craig he’s fine - he’s very much alive thanks to him, and without a shadow of a doubt, he knows he’s head over heels in love - but instead he closes his eyes, letting himself succumb to the urge to sleep.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kenny holds Butters, his head leaned back against the couch. He’s starting to drift off, too, watching Butters’s eyelids flicker as he dreams.

The med student doesn’t  get a lot of sleep - medical school is a full time commitment, not to mention his job.

Kenny looks at some of the artwork around Butters’s flat. It’s a nasty little hovel, and even the clean and tidy Butters can’t save its asbestos-filled walls.

The paintings do wonders for it, though. They’re bright, with clashing colors, and filled with intricate flowers and patterns. Butters painted them in high school, and he once told Kenny they were outlets for the pain he was going through at home.

“ _Some people paint their sadness, ya know? But I wanted to paint things that would make me happy to look at._ ”

He wonders if he’ll take up painting again once he graduates.

Kenny feels something worrisome nagging at the back of his head, and he realizes Cartman has wormed his way into his anxieties. Kenny knows he’s aware of his relationship with Butters, and since that night he met with him and discovered the unfortunate truth about Karen’s whereabouts, he’s been on edge.

He's been smothering Butters - insisting on spending every night with him, hanging around the clinic like some body guard, calling Butters every hour. Kenny hopes Butters understands why he's doing this, but his little love has been having his intense mood swings again, and Kenny worries he's the cause of them. 

Kenny's thoughts drift to his happy place. He likes to think of his future with Butters - where he’d like to be in 5 years. He imagines living in a modest but nice house on the outskirts of a little Hawaiian town, far from civilization, far from this rotting city. Maybe Butters will marry him, and they’ll adopt a baby with fat little arms and a button nose.

His day dream is about to dissolve into sleep when he hears his phone buzz on the table. Butters stirs, jerking awake.

“Sorry, honey,” Kenny says as he picks it up.

It’s an unknown number. “Hello?”

Kenny’s eyes widen, his breath caught in a hitch.

“Kenny, Kenny, I need your help. Forget about what I said, okay? I’m really sorry, I just need your help,” Karen sobs hysterically.

“Karen!” Kenny stands up quickly. “Where are you? At Cartman’s?”

“Kenny!” he hears her shout distantly like someone had grabbed the phone from her. The line goes dead.

“Fuck!” He scrambles for his keys and his gun.

Butters is sitting up now, watching Kenny, an unreadable look on his face.

He’s almost out the door when he feels Butters grab his wrist. Kenny was so distracted by getting out of there he didn’t realize he had gotten up from the couch.

Butters looks panicked, on the verge of being sick. His eyes are wide, pleading, brimming with tears. 

“Don’t go.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

One time, when Stan was about 16, one of the critical water mains in South Park busted.

It flooded his Uncle Jimbo’s shop, made several roads impassable, and pretty much halted daily life to a stop. There were no bottles or jugs of water left at the store an hour after the break, and South Park being the hellhole it is, it took the county days to come fix it.

Ten days. That’s how long Stan went without a shower or a bath or any semblance of cleanliness except for day four when he went crazy and slathered himself with hand sanitizer.

When they finally turned the water back on, and he flipped on the shower with a tremendous creak, he stood underneath the weak stream and almost cried. He watched the dirty water swirl down the drain and figured there was no better feeling in the world.

And now, after having just gotten off the phone with Wendy and Kyle, he feels the same way. Like all the dirtiness he's collected from working for Cartman is being stripped from him, and underneath he is still Stan Marsh.

Ridiculously cheerful for answering a summons from Cartman’s underboss, he halts when it’s not the underboss in his posh study but Cartman himself, flanked by two heavily armed guards.

Cartman clasps his hands together. “Stan Marsh!” He gets up and approaches him, the guards following. “Old friend!”

Stan fights the urge to step back as Cartman puts his hands on his shoulders, burning against the memory of Kyle’s hands there just a couple of days ago. “You know, when they told me you had approached my underboss with the news you left the police force, I didn’t believe it! How could the virtuous Stan Marsh leave that old hag and his fuck toy for a life of crime?” Cartman smiles sickeningly, and Stan fights the urge to choke him right there. He’d be full of bullet holes the moment he reached his throat.

“But here you are.” He turns around, putting his hands behind his back and looks out the large window like he’s god damn Mr. Burns or something. “But here you are,” he repeats, much quieter. “Tell me, Stan, did you hear what happened to Jason?”

Stan hates to break his silence, but he answers with a curt and flat ‘no’.

“He’s dead. Rotting at the bottom of the river.”

Stan hides the fact he’s shocked at the news. Cartman’s underboss being taken out is like, the second step away from an opponent’s checkmate. Stan doesn’t know who Cartman’s consigliere is - really, he’d be surprised if he had one - but he’d surely be the next target.

“How?” he asks despite himself. “Mmm… well, seems he didn’t have his priorities in place. Must’ve been too busy thinking about fucking the enemy’s consort on his nightly walk and .... slipped.”

“You killed your own underboss?” Stan asks, not entirely sure why he’s surprised.

“Oh, now, Stan, don’t hold me to the same standards as you. I didn’t even know Jason preferred the company of men - what a secret to keep from your close friend. For all I know Jason was slipping him information, and he was slipping it to that fa -”

“Why did you bring me here?” Stan asks quickly.

“Well, it should be obvious. I have an open position now. And who better than my childhood friend?” Cartman smiles oilily, and Stan knows it’s because he can read the shock on his face. “But! Not without a price. I still need you to prove some things to me.”

Stan has hit the jackpot, and he knows it. He could take Cartman down with ease this way, and probably spare several lives doing it at this angle. All he’d have to do is wait for the right time on the right day - when Cartman isn’t surrounded by guards.

So he nods slowly, hiding his eagerness, not at all thinking about what sick stipulations Cartman has thought up.

“See, I’ll need you to make the ultimate sacrifice for me. I’ll need you to kill Kyle.”

Stan almost laughs. “No, Cartman, I’m not murdering Kyle. What would make you think I’d ever agree to that?”

Cartman doesn’t answer at first. He only smiles wider, approaching slowly, his guards gripping their guns noticeably harder.

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When Clyde comes in for his appointment, Bebe closes the door behind him a little too loudly and spins around. She can tell the air around them is heavy, vibrating with the implications of his last visit.

“Okay,” she says. “I broke up with Pip last night.”

Clyde’s face immediately breaks in a grin. He isn’t the best-looking man Bebe has ever slept with, but when he smiles, anyone else she's ever been with dims in her memory.

“So.... I guess I should take you on a date then.”

Bebe blushes. “I guess so. But listen, I still could get in a lot of trouble for this, even if you aren’t technically my patient once you transfer.”

“Don’t worry,” Clyde says. He walks over to her, getting close enough to smell her perfume, and brushes a curly strand behind her ear. “I know a lot of places where no one will bother us.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Clyde is obstinate about picking her up at her apartment, so she eventually, reluctantly tells him the truth about who her roommate is. At first he seems a little ruffled by this information - not angry but nervous - but she assures him she doesn’t mind meeting him at his place.

As she rides up to his floor in the fancy elevator, she checks herself out in the shiny marble interior. She had already had an outfit in mind for their first date - a guilty pleasure of a girlish fantasy she kept tucked away in her head after she first met him. It was going to be her best date dress, a tight, red number with long sleeves and a plunging neckline. She’d wear her hair up piled on top of her head, messy enough to offset the fanciness of the dress and to not detract from her cleavage.

But alas, her planned Milanos sit lonely in their closet tonight.

Clyde had specifically told her to dress comfortable. “I said I’d take us somewhere no one would bother us, remember?” Bebe’s heart had thumped erratically at his words. It was more than first date jitters - she wondered what such a place was to a high ranking mafia member.

Nonetheless, she put on just as tight jeans and a somewhat flowy top with a little less of a plunging neckline, leaving her hair down. The periwinkle color of her shirt is striking against her blonde hair and brown eyes, and she looks at her reflection with satisfaction.

It doesn’t take long before the elevator dings and opens.

_Deep breaths, Bebe._

She finds his apartment number and knocks on the door, wincing at the unintended loudness.

He opens up, more dressed down than she’s seen him. The smile he gives her when he sees her melts away her anxieties a little, and she realizes she’s smiling back, just as airily.

“Bebe! Come in!” he says, letting her in through the door.

His apartment is as swanky as she thought it would be and surprisingly neat. It’s so _normal_ , the plain but tasteful furniture, the modest TV playing a MMA fight in the background, the peppermint scented candle flickering on a wooden coffee table.

There’s framed photos, and Bebe looks at them closely while he disappears to grab his keys and coat.

There’s one with a chubby, starry-eyed Clyde, a tall, brunette adult on either side. The man is bespeckled, happy, and the woman is statuesque, almost queenly.

There’s a couple more of Clyde at different stages of life with two boys of the same age. They’re both significantly better-looking than him. The sweater-vested black man’s elegance translates even through the photos, and the dark-haired man is striking, the blaise look on his face belonging between the editorial pages of a fashion magazine.

_This must be Token and Craig_ , Bebe thinks. _They don’t look dangerous._

At the end of the entry hall is the flag of the Netherlands hanging on the wall. “Are you Dutch?” she asks loudly.

“Uh, kind of,” he says much quieter, a lot closer than she thought. He’s pulled on his leather jacket, and Bebe thinks he looks more authentically Clyde dressed like this. “My mother was.”

“Oh,” Bebe says simply, realizing she's starting to tread on shaky ground. “Do you speak…?”

“... Flemish? A little.” He smiles proudly.

Without thinking she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. When she pulls away he blushes. “So.. where exactly are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he says mischievously.

They talk lightly on the car ride to wherever, Bebe covering up her anxiousness with nervous chatter. Her body pulses with adrenaline, not exactly an uncomfortable feeling after a couple of years with a milk toast existence.

Clyde tells her wild stories of his little Colorado town (“There were aliens there, I swear!”), and she tells him about her life as a teenage pageant queen, her eventual falling out with her mother, and her journey to becoming a psychiatrist.

He practically glows with admiration. Maybe she gets too gutsy, but she catches herself asking what he would be doing if he weren’t doing… _this_.

He doesn’t seem affected by it, though, and instead tilts his head sweetly in thought. “”Mmm.. Honestly, I never thought about it, but probably take over my old man’s shoe shop or maybe be like… a car salesman. Something really boring.”

Bebe for some reason finds this really funny, and for a second he looks a little hurt at her laughter. She waves her hand in front of her face. “No, no, I’m not laughing at you. My life _is_ boring, Clyde, and I’m jealous of yours.”

“What! Seriously?” Clyde shakes his head. “No, no, Bebe. It’s violent. And I don’t always do the beating, you know? I’ve been shot before.” He looks at her wide-eyed.

Bebe feels a little stupid, choosing to ignore the weird little trill her stomach does. But before she can say anything, they pull up to a cliff.

“Well, this isn’t exactly a mafia hangout, but I thought it’d be nice and private.” Clyde gets out of the car, and suddenly alarms go off in Bebe’s head. She trusts Clyde, but any smart woman would feel on edge at a dark cliff in the middle of nowhere with a man on a first date.

She still gets out, though. It’s early spring and the air is still cold, so she’s touched when Clyde pulls out a blanket from his trunk.

It’s dark all around them, the trees casting looming shadows in the moonlight, and Bebe wonders why they’re there until they walk up the cliff. The entire city is spread out in front of them, an ocean of twinkling lights as far as the eye can see.

She realizes she gasped at the sight when Clyde puts an arm around her. “I know it isn’t a fancy dinner or anything, but I wanted to spend time just us, where we could talk and you know, cuddle.”

Clyde’s face is hard to read in the dark, but Bebe can sense the blush. “It’s perfect,” she says through a smile.

She helps him lay out the blankets, and they bundle up together. Clyde admits Craig cleaned his apartment before she got there, and she laughs at his story until her ribs hurt. She tells him all about her yoga hobby, even standing up to show him some impressive positions.

They talk until the sky starts to glow lavender with the rising sun, and they fall asleep, wrapped around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \----- NEXT TIME ------
> 
> Tweek and Craig take a bullet wound to their relationship, Bebe finds out Clyde is not all sweet words and cute dates, and Stan... is just in a real pickle.
> 
> I have a section that's a "Kyle" section, I guess, talking about his past and current feelings for Stan for the next chapter, and while it really does explain a lot more about them and where they're at now, I don't know if it's too much Style? idk


	7. Just a broken man, jumbled up and trapped in glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) sorry about the random glass-themed continuum - i was rewatching Handmaid's Tale, and I got that orchestral version of Blondie's Heart of Glass they play during the protest scene in my head and yeah - this happened
> 
> 2) I completely changed the ending of this series. Blame Grim Fandango and American Horror Story for the end of this chapter ( I maybe consume to much media ), but really - I'm sorry - I promise things will lighten up!
> 
> 3) WARNING - this chapter includes an accidental domestic abuse (as in someone accidentally injures someone else), suicidal thoughts, and just general sadness. 
> 
> 4) a Spotify playlist will be included with the next chapter. I hope ya'll are ready to be subjugated to my weird music tastes
> 
> 5) I hope the writing is okay in this one because I'm going on a trip this weekend, so I wanted to make sure to go ahead and get it out there.
> 
> Whew! Thanks so much for the support. Ya'll make me so happy. Once again, I have a Tumblr - it's mediocrefanfics. I don't bite!

It’s only been a week since Tweek was shot, but he’s already got most of his mobility back. It still stings at the slightest stretch, a reminder of what happened, but Tweek is hell bent on hiding the pain from Craig.

He’s full of anxiety by nature, but Tweek is also resilient - by this point in life, he’s dodged so many bullets, both actual and metaphorical, that he can’t let one good shot break him down. This still doesn’t stop him from having enveloping nightmares at night of looking down that endless barrel, ones that make him sit up in a cold sweat.

But life has to go on, and if he dies, he dies. It’s unfortunate, and a thought process Tweek knows is not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but it’s what keeps him from crumpling to ground in a sobbing mess. It’s either that or he finds his distraction from mortality at the end of a white line, and he’s worked too hard to fall into that hole again.

He checks himself out in Craig’s wall mirror, in too big pajama pants hanging off his hips. Tweek gives him a mischievous grin, eyes meeting through his reflection, as Craig watches him from his bed.

“Do you think people will still think I’m cute with this scar?”

“Of course,” Craig says, eyes a little hazy with lust. “ ‘Makes you look tough. Now come here.”

Tweek crawls onto the bed with a feline grace that makes Craig feel incredibly predatory. He grips Tweek’s waist as they kiss, his hands slipping under his waistband and grabbing his ass. Tweek laughs throatily into his lips, gasping when Craig moves his grip to his inner thigh.

Tweek hopes he’ll get a round two, his mind flooding with memories from the night before of Craig’s hand around his throat and the sound of him pounding Tweek into the side of the bed.

But Craig breaks away and stares at Tweek with almost sad eyes, pressing his lips together. He’s been doing this since he got shot, like he’s memorizing every detail of his face. “I- I wish you’d stop that,” Tweek says, fighting a twitch and losing. Craig holds him closer.

“What?”

“Looking at me like that.”

Craig just shakes his head and mutters a quiet ‘sorry’.

“It makes me feel like you’re…”

“Like I’m what?”

“Like, memorizing my face or something! Like you’ll never see me again!”

Craig is silent, and suddenly it feels like an iron weight is on Tweek’s chest. “Craig, no - you’re not going to fucking bail on me again, are you?” Tweek’s voice is high, tinged with poison and hurt.

“You almost died because of me.” Craig has his mask on again - the one with the stony eyes, the immovable face.

Tweek laughs bitterly, feeling the tears burn his eyes as he pulls back from Craig. “So? Craig, if it wasn’t that, it’d be an angry drug dealer, or those same fucking henchman for some other reason, or someone’s jealous fucking wife. Holy shit, Craig, don’t be so _fucking_ dramatic.”

“So you just live like you know one day you’ll get murdered? Tweek, that’s ridiculous.” Craig is sitting up now, arms crossed in defiance.

“And you don’t? How many times have you been hurt?” Tweek asks, knowing the answer already because he’s counted the scars on Craig’s skin. “How long before they get a lucky shot?”

Tweek shrinks back at the look on Craig’s face. He looks like Tweek might as well have punched him in the gut.

Tweek goes to lean into him, but he pushes him away. “I’m so sorry, Craig, I didn’t mean to scare you - I -” He’s desperately trying to catch his breath from turning into a full blown panic attack.

“I’m not scared, Tweek. I couldn’t fucking care less what happens to me.” Craig’s eyes are hard and narrowed - the jade green almost a smoky grey color. “But if something happened to you… I don’t know what I’d do,” he says, the anger dissaspitating from his face. He covers it with his hands, hiding the pent up emotions spilling out. “But apparently… apparently it means nothing to you. Your death, my death, you’re right, it’s all inevitable.”

“No, baby, that’s not what I meant. If anything happened to you, I…” The dam bursts, and what was before just the errant tear shamefully making its way turns into thick sobs that make his shoulder shake. He tackles Craig, burying his face in his chest. “I _am_ scared, okay?”

Craig runs his fingers through Tweek’s hair. Eventually he puts his hands on both sides of Tweek’s slender face and forces him to look up. “Let me pay off your debt. Let’s run away together, baby. We can go back to the mountains and I’ll make you the happiest man in the world, I fucking swear…”

The last thing Craig expected his words to do was to make Tweek cry harder, but for some reason Tweek lets out a sob, hand gripping the back of Craig’s shirt in his fist. His heart sinks when Tweek shakes his head.

“N-no, I got myself into this. You can’t pay for my way out.” Tweek closes his eyes as if he doesn’t want to see the impact of his words play out across Craig’s face.

“Why not?” The angry edge to Craig’s voice is back, and Tweek makes himself to look at him. Craig is handsome - the kind that makes people on the street turn their head when he walks by - but when he’s angry, he almost looks otherworldly. “How is it any different than men paying you for what you do now except for I _love_ you, Tweek. I’m not going to do it because you might suck my dick, I’m doing it because I want to protect you.”

“It’s completely different!” Tweek yells, getting up off the bed and immediately wincing at the pressure he put on his shoulder to do so. “Is that what you think I do? That men just throw money at me, and I do nothing?”

“That’s not what I meant - Listen, Tweek, the truth is I can’t let another person I love die because of me. I won’t let it happen. So that means you either run away with me or... or…” Craig gets up out of the bed and grabs Tweek’s arms a little too hard, pulling him close.

Tweek looks at him and raises his hand, like he’s about to strike him, but only clenches his fist, dropping it to his side.

“Fuck you,” Tweek says, jaw clenched. He turns and grabs his overnight bag from the floor, throwing his clothes out of it. “I’m going home.”

He struggles to pull his pants on, his shoulder throbbing with his blood pressure. When Craig reaches over to help him, he snaps a sharp ‘don’t’.

Craig watches hopelessly as Tweek gets dressed. He expects him to stomp out, slam the door behind him, but he doesn’t. He stands in front of Craig, fresh tears running down his face.

He stretches his hands out to him, and Craig comes over, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his hair. “I love you so much,” he says, and Tweek thinks he might feel a dampness on his shoulder.

“I love you, too,” he whispers into his chest. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Craig. I’m not made of glass.”

Craig doesn’t answer. He only tilts Tweek’s face up to kiss him, long, slow, and deep.

“I guess this is it, then,” Tweek says quietly, tearing himself away from Craig.

Craig watches him leave, holding his breath.

Tweek looks at him one last time before he closes the door, the sound deafening loud, like shattering glass.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bebe is sweeping the broken glass off the kitchen floor, whistling a tune she had to dance to in one of those godforsaken pageants when she was 16.

She was so distracted by thoughts of her outlaw that she wasn’t paying attention when she went to reach for a paper towel and elbowed a beer glass onto the floor.

It takes her a second before she realizes Wendy is standing in the doorway, eyebrow cocked.

Bebe grins sheepishly.

“So who is he?” Wendy asks, stepping carefully around the glass and going to the fridge to grab a can of whatever awful organic liquid the color of puce she drinks.

Bebe feels a slight wave of panic. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Your head has been in the clouds lately. I mean, seriously, whistling while you work?” Wendy says, in jest.

Bebe shrugs. “Just a guy from work.”

“From work?” Wendy asks, confused. “Did Lydia die and get replaced by a dude?”

Bebe laughs, carefully dumping the glass shards into the trash. She’s not sure what to say to cover it up, but an idea strikes. “Well… not exactly.”

Wendy gasps, setting down the can hard on the counter for emphasis. “A patient?”

 _Well, it's sort of the truth._ “I’m not ready to talk about it yet, though.”

Wendy nods loyally, and Bebe starts to feel incredibly guilty. Wendy has been her best friend since college, her confidant that actually cared. Would she think Bebe was a bad person if she knew the truth?

 _Probably_ , Bebe thinks. _I’d be a criminal in her eyes._

Bebe turns away quickly, to blink away her tears, when she notices the green little numbers on the microwave. “It’s almost 8! Where have you been?”

Wendy sighs, leaning against the counter. “There was an incident late last night. Really bloody. I had to make sure all the bodies got identified, families notified, and then I had to put it all together. Turns out it was a turf war.” Wendy waves her hand, and Bebe notices looking closer Wendy looks tired, war worn. “That god damn Clyde Donovan started it.”

Suddenly Bebe’s world becomes unstable, her heart in her throat. She hasn’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. “Did… Is he one of the dead?” she asks as glibly as possibly, kneeling on her knees as if to look for remaining glass but really to ground herself before whatever blow is about to come.

“Unfortunately not,” Wendy scoffs. “But he took a lot of people out. Ten families, ten families had to be told their loved ones weren't coming home. Granted, these are criminals, but still - a life is a life, right?"

Bebe yelps.

“What? What’s wrong?” Wendy asks, getting down on the floor. Bebe has laid her palm down into some glass, and blood starts to pool around the shards. The tears come hard and fast, and like a child she starts to cry.

Wendy helps her up, rinsing it in the sink. She leans her head on Bebe’s shoulder, and she knows Wendy has long realized her tears weren’t because of the cuts.

Like a good friend, she doesn’t pry, and Bebe feels the sting as her tears land on her hand as Wendy tweezes the glass out.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Because it’s obviously a trap, Kenny! Why can’t you see that? - Hold still!” Butters has Kenny’s arm in his grip, picking out the shards of glass with tweezers.

“I don’t have fucking time for this, Leo,” Kenny growls, on the verge of ripping his arm from him. It’s his fault anyway Kenny is hurt - they had gotten into an argument and Butters threw a beer bottle at the wall, which of course, promptly exploded and found its way into Kenny’s arm. “Karen would never betray me. Even under threat.”

Butters shakes his head and starts to cry again. “God, I’m sorry, Ken. I don’t even remember…” His eyes wander to the glass bottle in pieces spread across the floor like a mosaic. “I didn’t even mean to hit you - I just needed to throw something and -”

“Hey,” Kenny says, suddenly soft and gentle, “danger has a way of finding me. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Butters looks up and smiles at him, sadly. “What if it’s a trap? What if they kill you? What if I wait and wait and you never come home?”

Kenny bites his tongue pensievely, tearing his eyes from Butters. “Leo, I- I die all the time. You have to know this somewhere, right?”

Butters eyes widen, something swimming in his mind.

“I’m an immortal, Butters.” He kisses his forehead. “So trust me, it’ll be fine.”

Butters embraces him, the tweezers clattering on the floor. “I’d call you crazy, but I know you’d never lie about something like that. Is that why - sometimes I don’t hear from you for a whole night?”

Kenny nods his head, grateful that at least a little remanent of memory remains in Butters about his curse. “I’ll tell you more about it later. I don’t have time to explain it all right now,” he says, mind snapping back to the task at hand.

“Wait!” Butters grabs his wrist again. “But you still bleed, right? You still hurt? What if they…. they torture you or do something horrible?”

Kenny smiles sadly and brings his clasped hand up to kiss it. “Don’t worry about that, baby. Just don’t answer the door, no matter what, okay? I’ll call you first. Don’t leave either. Promise?”

“Promise,” Butters says quietly. He watches Kenny leave, a quick, chaste kiss before he does, and when the door is closed, Butters slides down the wall. His heart is numb, shielded by the fear of what scenario he could imagine.

Butters sits on the floor for almost an hour, a habit he picked up when he’d sit wedged between his bed and the wall as a child, hiding from his parents. He moves around the brown shards of glass into different patterns without much thought, letting the movements override everything else.

There’s still half the bottle intact with jagged edges, and Butters considers making himself get up and clean the mess when someone bangs on the door.

He covers his mouth quickly to silence his  scream. The banging continues, increasing until the door starts to shake with its force. He looks around wildly for any means of protection as it becomes increasingly apparent whoever is on the other side is going to get in one way or another. 

Butters hoists himself up using the counter and reaches for a butcher knife. As soon as his hands grip the handle, the door splinters and there’s four men, big and vile and practically foaming at the mouth, in his flat.

He steps backwards, landing a foot right on the jagged edge of the bottle. Butters cries out and the men laugh like hyenas.

“He’s going to do himself in before we get the pleasure,” one of the men growls.

“He’s a pretty little thing,” a man with yellowed teeth spits. “Almost could imagine he’s a woman from behind. I bet he'll beg and cry, don't you?"

 _Like hell I will_ , Butters thinks, teeth gritted, brandishing the knife.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kyle flicks his bourbon glass, the hollow ting it makes pleasant to his drunk ears. The cute bartender smiles at him, her braids tied up in a bun on top of her head and her lips painted crimson.

“So,” she asks, voice as smooth as the night sky, “who is she?”

Kyle looks up at her startled and then shoots her a dizzy grin. He shakes his head.

“Oh,” she says, eyebrow raised. “Who is he, then?”

The truth is Kyle doesn’t know how to answer the question.

Things have never been better with Heidi - they’re even discussing moving in with each other. And since Heidi works for administration and not under Kyle directly, Wendy has given them the greenlight to be open with their relationship. Heidi makes Kyle feel safe, normal. She’s warm and funny, but with enough bite to keep Kyle in place, and he _loves_ it.

When they have sex, Kyle feels strong, incredible, her skin so soft, her body so small against his.

Nothing like the one time he gave in to Stan and felt what it was like to be under someone else’s spell, to be the one pressed into the mattress. That made Kyle feel strong in an entirely different way. He was the one giving Stan what he wanted, being rewarded with the electric feeling of being filled to the brim.

Not to mention Stan is his best friend, the slightly darker half of him. Living a life without him would - has been - like being without his hands.

It’s not that Kyle wouldn’t love to be able to kiss Stan again - to feel that rough, amazing, greedy way he consumes him. But Stan and Kyle decided their friendship is volatile enough, so in order to preserve what they have they had to draw a line at what they could be.

In the end Kyle has made peace with it, but deep down he wonders a great, big ‘what if’.

So he only shakes his head again, and smoothly slides his glass towards her - except for his aim is not so great half a bottle of bourbon in.

The glass tumbles over the bar, and the woman jumps from it with a yelp.

Kyle’s face turns red as it shatters, the noise somehow louder than the music.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_“Listen, Stan,” Cartman says glibly, “Either you do it, or I kill you and find someone else to kill Kyle. And I have a feeling whoever else I choose won’t do it as mercifully as you will.”_

_It takes all of Stan’s will power not to rear back and smash Cartman’s face in. “This is because he chose me over you, isn’t it?”_

_Cartman chuckles. “Come on now, he’s my biggest obstacle. And what better way for you to pledge yourself to me?”_

_Stan can only stand there and fight his panic._

_“Be gone. I give you exactly 24 hours to make your decision, but Stan, choose wisely.”_

Stan holds the jagged piece of window pane tightly in his hand, his blood trickling from his grip. It hurts but he’s not thinking about it, so drunk the pain barely registers in his head. He looks at his wrist, the green veins snaking through, dark thoughts starting to seep into his consciousness.

 _Just one slash_ , he thinks, _and I’ll have my way out. Cartman can’t use me to hurt Kyle._

The blood from his palm drips on the floor, rolling off the dusty planks that make up the flooring.

The red reminds him of Kyle’s hair.

_Kyle looks over the balcony of the hospital’s atrium, a supposed peaceful place for family members. Stan approaches him slowly, the tell tale sign of Kyle wiping his eyes on his sleeve giving him second thoughts._

_Nonetheless, Stan puts a hand on his shoulder. Kyle looks up startled, eyes red, before he embraces Stan. They stand there in silence, and he cries, too, face tucked in Kyle’s shoulder._

_In his mind, Ike is still a vivacious, small child with a wise mouth before he could even properly speak._

_Kyle pulls away and swallows thickly. “They said - they said he’ll probably never walk again. Why would someone do that to him, Stan?”_

_Stan only looks at him sadly, the implications nothing he wants to think about right now._

Stan forces himself to let go of the shard, the thinness of his alcohol-spiked blood causing it to pour almost freely from his palm.

 _There’s got to be a way_ , he thinks, light headed. He gets up and makes his way to the bathroom, shoving his hand under hot water.

Everything is spinning, and he grips the side of the sink with his other hand in an attempt to stable himself. The blood turns a pinkish hue as it mixes with the water and spins down the drain.

Stan looks up into his mirror. The cracked surface splits his face up like a Picasso painting. He studies it until his reflection doesn’t make sense anymore, just a broken man, jumbled up and trapped in glass.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Kenny peers through the windows, careful to make sure he can’t be seen on the other side.

Cartman and his men seem to be in his study on the second floor if the shadowy figures Kenny sees in the bay window are any indication. He moves around silently to the other side of the mansion, finally finding the room Karen is in. His fists clench in anger at the sight of her handcuffed to a chair, her legs bound with rope. 

She looks more small and fragile than she did even as a little girl, and Kenny wastes no time in smashing his fist into the glass.

Karen looks up suddenly at the noise. He climbs painfully through, ignoring the shards digging into his skin.

“Karen, I’m here to save you.” Kenny grabs a shard and starts to cut the rope with it. He hears the men approaching and starts sliding the glass faster, frantically.

Karen sniffles, her face red and puffy from crying.

 _Poor thing_ , Kenny thinks. He hates himself for letting this happen to her. He should have never gone that long without trying to reach out.

“Now, now, look what we have here, men,” Cartman says, the words oozing out from him as he walks into the room. “Big brother Kenny is here to save the day.”

Kenny pulls his gun out of his jacket and points it at him, too blind with anger to worry about the henchmen flanking him. Smoothly Cartman pulls out a gun and shoves the barrel into the back of Karen’s head. “Hand the gun over,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Please, just do as he says,” Karen sobs, and Kenny pauses before doing as he’s told reluctantly.

A goon takes it from him, and in one swift motion, grabs Kenny’s arms, twisting them behind his back. He hIsses in pain.

Cartman starts to laugh unabashedly, and Kenny’s blood turns into ice. He knows that laugh - there’s a twist to this plot Kenny doesn’t expect. Cartman pulls a set of key out of his breast pocket and uses them to uncuff Karen. One of his men pulls out a switchblade and cuts the rope.

Karen rubs her wrists, sniffling, and Cartman leans down to kiss her on the cheek, making a big show of it. “Excellent performance, baby.”

Karen glares at him, her kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed like a feral cat’s.

 _Leo was right_ , Kenny thinks bitterly. _This was all a trap_.

“Karen, how could you?” he whispers, feeling the tears run down his cheeks as his little sister looks away. “ _Fucking look at me_. How could you betray me like that?”

One of Cartman’s men strikes him across the face, and Kenny spits the blood onto the floor. “Go ahead, fucking kill me, you fat pig,” he hisses.

Cartman only laughs again, that sickening, vile laugh. “Oh, Kenny, I want you to suffer before you die.” He smiles and taps his nose.

 _Fuck_. “I thought you probably knew,” Kenny says quietly. “When did you… remember? When we shared a body?”

Cartman only shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter now, friend. What matters is I know the perfect fate for someone like you. Fate, right? That’s what you believe in - you’re a fatalist?”

Kenny is confused, but his heart won’t calm down, sensing his impending doom. How does one kill an immortal?

“Bring it in!” Cartman shouts. One of the henchmen goes behind Kenny, putting a fat hand around his throat when he struggles. He gags him with a thick rag, and Kenny only thrashes harder.

They force him to his knees.

The other men bring in a big metal box, big enough to fit Kenny inside. His eyes widen, and he starts to make muffled pleas to Karen, who only covers her face.

Kenny briefly considers unleashing the energy he keeps tucked away deep inside him, lest he fall too far from his humanity for even Butters to reach him. But the idea is quickly dashed when he realizes Cartman will kill Karen without a second thought if Kenny does anything in retaliation. 

They force him into the box, using the same rope used on Karen to bind his hands together.

He closes his eyes. _I’m sorry, Leo. I am so sorry._ At least maybe Leo will be safer without him in the picture.

He watches as Cartman hoists the lid up. “It’s been awhile since you uh, respawned from your mother, right? So when you suffocate over and over, you’ll just end up back here. You have no idea how convenient that is for me. At least you’ll still get to see your little boyfriend on the other side sometimes, right?”

Kenny looks up in confusion before realizing the meaning behind Cartman’s words.

He screams every insult he can think of before Cartman closes the lid, the words just weak and muffled, until he hears the latch of a lock. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---- NEXT TIME ------
> 
> A weird sad boner scene with Tweek, we find out what happens to Butters, Kenny is well, trapped in a box, Stan comes up with a plan, and Clyde begs Bebe to go underground. It'll be a transitional chapter fo sho
> 
> Okay, I can't say much without outright spoiling shit.
> 
> "We may have years, we may have hours, but sooner or later, we push up flowers."


	8. Richer than Croesus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really thinking about rewriting some of the parts of the last chapter because I'm not happy with the quality of work. ALSO I changed my Clyde/Bebe part so uh, that's different than what was previewed the last chapter.
> 
> This one appeases me a little more - I can just picture mafia!Craig bossing people around in Spanish. WARNING : there is consensual prostitution in this chapter
> 
> I made a Spotify playlist for the fic !! It is .... full of very random things, from oldies to rap to instrumental. But bits and pieces inspired this, so there you go. (You can also find the link on my Tumblr : https://open.spotify.com/user/nhlc9at4b4n10feq9wgx7gm9y/playlist/0cMCqyTkgBuQrfNyTOlCnc?si=2xW9Qd57T4GlXp0smq3MUQ)
> 
> WHICH is mediocrefanfics . Feel free to talk to me! Let me know if you think I should rewrite that last chapter and also if you guess the song that was the inspiration for Kenny sewing up Karen's new blue jeans :) (actually that song was a huge inspiration for this whole story)
> 
> Thanks for reading! You ppl are the best!

_This guy’s pretty spry for his age_ , Tweek thinks, as he’s flipped on his stomach.

The man isn’t truly that old - maybe in his early 50’s, and he’s kind, especially for being richer than Croesus. Tweek thinks he kind of looks like Tom Selleck, and he certainly could be in worse positions than this.

He shivers as rough hands trace his waist, squeezing at his hips, grabbing at his ass. The man is worshipping his body, and Tweek makes sure to arch his back so he gets the best view.

Of course it isn’t the same as when Craig did it - Craig made Tweek feel like the only person in the world worth holding, but _this_ wasn’t that. _This_ was what was going to pay his rent for the next two months. Tweek reminds himself of the thick wad of bills already in his coat pocket when he feels that awful tugging in his chest.

The man squeezes Tweek’s face with his grip, forcing his fingers in his mouth and pressing his erection against the entrance of his ass. He remembers that he’s the one who’s supposed to be most of the work here, so he slides his back end up against the man’s cock and eagerly sucks his fingers.

_God, it’s so hard to be into this_ , Tweek thinks. These things have never felt exactly right, but there’s worst things in the world, in his opinion, than getting fucked by rich, usually okay-looking, men for large sums of money. But this time it feels wrong. The man isn’t who he really wants to be touching him, and because of that Tweek starts to feel disgusted despite his best efforts.

“What’s wrong, baby? You usually beg for me,” the man says, tangling his fingers in Tweek’s hair, forcing his head back to look at him.

Tweek puts on his best smile. “Mmm… just a little tired tonight. But I bet if you’d give it to me I’d moan.”

The man pops Tweek’s jaw and his hand disappears. Tweek suddenly feels his fingers up to the knuckles in him, the burn and the sharpness of the sudden penetration making him gasp and squeeze his eyes shut. It’s a little painful, but he relishes in it - a heady distraction from his emotional turmoil.

The man works his fingers back and forth, brushing the most sensitive parts of Tweek. He bites his bottom lip, whimpering. He thinks back to when Craig fingered him in the car before dropping him off for work one night.

_“Remember whose baby you really are, okay?”_

The memory of the soft kiss Craig gave him as they parted is interrupted by the feeling of the man’s dick, slick in the lubed up condom, pressing itself into his asshole.

_Show time_ , Tweek thinks, and he greedily pushes back, taking the man in one go, making him gasp. “Oh, daddy, you’re so big,” he moans, giving himself a break to adjust.

The man starts to thrust with enough force to lift Tweek’s feet off the ground and further into the mattress. He whines for harder, faster, matching the man’s movements with his own.

Something warm and thin runs down his face, and he realizes in a panic he’s started to cry. He covers it up with a high-pitched moan worthy of the front page of Pornhub, hoping to fool the man into thinking he’s crying because of how good it feels.

And it definitely feels good. The man is hitting the right spots, electrical currents rolling up Tweek’s body, his dick hard and pumping into the grind against the firm mattress.

But it’s all physical, so Tweek zones out, and suddenly it’s Craig behind him, tall and broad against his back. He’s digging his nails into Tweek’s side, asking him if he’ll come for him like a good boy.

“Yes, daddy,” Tweek whimpers, his body tensing at his orgasm, biting his bottom lip so hard it draws blood.

The man makes some sort of guttural noise, and Tweek feels the familiar sensation of a cock spasming inside of him.

Eventually the man pulls out, and they dress in silence. He hands Tweek the final half of his payment, and he slips it into his pocket so smoothly anyone would’ve missed it.

When Tweek leaves, the man stops him, dipping down to kiss him goodbye. Tweek stops his lips with his index finger and shakes his head apologetically.

As he walks to the train, the cold wind bringing in a late snow, he allows himself to think about Craig.

He’d do jobs like this occasionally when he and Craig were dating - Craig had no right to stop him just as much as Tweek couldn’t stop him from breaking people’s kneecaps - and afterwards Tweek would go to Craig’s apartment. He’d wrap his arms around him, kissing the scent of another man off of him, and they’d watch some cheesy romance, sometimes with guinea pigs in their laps. 

But tonight Tweek rides home to his dark, empty apartment, letting himself cry until his chest hurts.  
________________________________________________________________

A plus - if there is one - of being bullied most of your life is you learn your best techniques of defense. And if you’re small like Butters, you usually find out pretty early in life agility is the key to not getting your ass beat.

This is true even now, and keeping this in mind, he manages to dodge them enough to shallowly slash one of the men in the chest, drawing blood.

He gives up the notion of running through the door almost right away, but the window on the other side of the room is big enough for him to shimmy through.

The only issue is unlocking it and doing this without landing a bullet in the brain.

He decides to go for it, his foot aching but the adrenaline numbing it enough for him to dash across. He pulls a club chair close to him, ducking below it, hands fumbling with the locks.

One of the men fires a gun and while the chair’s stuffing slows the bullet down, it doesn’t stop it from taking a chunk of skin off his shoulder. The men kick his other furniture across the room and fire again, but this time Butters is too quick for them, getting the window open with a triumph.

He hops onto the fire escape, yelping at the pain of his injured foot against the metal grating. He grits his teeth as he climbs down it, fighting the light headedness he’s getting from the throbbing pressure.

He looks up to see the men following him, slowed by the difficulty of wedging themselves through the small window. There’s enough people on the street below he would like to think they surely wouldn’t murder him in front of a crowd, but he keeps his pace up, deciding he’d rather not make any bets.

The best thing would be to go to his clinic, clean his wounds, and bandage them up, but the likelihood of there being more hitmen there is high, so he abandons that idea. Kenny is probably knee deep in shit, and Butters doesn’t really have many more friends - he’s always been a little too sweet for people’s tastes - but he keeps racking his brain for some sort of solution.

He keeps walking, with a limp that leaves a trail of blood behind him. People are staring at him, but this isn’t a compassionate city - he knows no one will stop him to ask him if he’s okay. Butters glances behind his shoulder and speeds up when he sees the men stalking behind him, hands in their coat pockets.

Butters could catch the attention of a cop, but that’s rolling the dice - they’ll either be on Cartman’s payroll or they won’t care. And if they do care, then he runs the risk of them digging too deep into his business.

_But maybe not all of them_ , Butters thinks.

Kenny has an old friend who comes by the clinic often -  an undercover cop with steely eyes. Butters has a soft spot for the man, who makes him promise tenfold he won’t tell anyone he saw him. Kenny told Butters what little he knows of Stan Marsh’s situation, an explanation of all the sadness in his stare, and Butters  makes sure to be extra gentle when taking care of him.

Eventually, one night, his red-headed partner came by, and despite his boyish, romantic heart wanting to reunite the two, Butters denied ever meeting anyone meeting Stan's description, per "company policy". He did, however, let him know there was a _mysterious_ man who must live nearby to walk home as injured as he gets who might know _something_ about Stan's whereabouts. 

_“They shouldn’t give you any trouble, but if they do, mention my name, and they’ll leave you alone.” Kenny sighs, deep and long-suffering. “Those two are always getting into drama.”_

Those two cops - if they’re as old of friends as Kenny acted - could maybe be actual help.

But Butters doesn’t have too much time to hash out a plan because the men are getting closer, and they’re starting to approach a more deserted part of the city.

He crawls up the stone stairs of an ornate church, sighing with relief when the heavy oak doors are unlocked. Butters doesn’t believe for a second the men will honor the sanctuary rule, but he knows the chances of him finding a solid hiding spot is high.

He drags himself through the main aisle, hoping the red carpeting will at least camouflage some of the blood from his foot. Butters throws himself haphazardly into the baptism pool behind the pulpit, water splashing over the stone edges.

The pool is quickly tainted red with his blood.

Butters hears the doors open, and he takes a deep breath, dunking his head under.

He squeezes his eyes shut, realizing it’s only a matter of time before the men look over the edge and shoot him right there, underneath the gold cross that hangs precariously above the water.

Despite the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, he vaguely hears another man’s voice cut through the sanctuary, followed by the irritated grunts of the men. They start to argue, and Butters slowly rises to the top to get a desperate breath of air. Eventually he hears the church doors close with a slam and approaching footsteps.

He takes a deep breath, forcing the calm over himself. If this is the end, Butters figures, he’s done well. Escaping the clutches of his parents, meeting someone he’s pretty sure is the love of his life, living his life on his terms - it’s been a good attempt at patching together a happy adulthood after a miserable childhood.

His final thoughts are interrupted as someone grabs his shirt and yanks him up out of the water, the sound of the splash echoing throughout the church. Panicked, he opens his eyes, breath catching when he sees who it is.

Butters can’t believe his luck.

__________________________________________________________________

“Won’t he be pissed if he knew you’re keeping tabs on him?” Clyde asks, leaning against a crate casually, like it isn’t filled with illegal firearms.

Craig never takes his eyes off the men on the bottom floor, loading the boxes onto semis pulled into the loading docks. The guns are on their way to South America, to arm an insurgence - and while Craig doesn’t particularly get involved with their investments, he does believe in their mission. He just wishes they didn’t wear their olive green uniforms to things like these.

He whistles, short and sharp, and a group of men hauling a box stop, dropping it with a heavy thud that makes Clyde wince. Craig yells something over the railing in Spanish, pointing to a truck in the opposite direction the men were going.

“It’s not like I’m having him followed,” Craig says a little miffed, turning his attention to Clyde. “I’m just scratching Marsh’s back for some information. I have to make sure he’s safe.”

“Does Token know about this?” Clyde asks, eyebrow raised.

“Does Token know about you fucking Wendy Testaburger’s roommate?” Craig snips, eyes darting dangerously towards Clyde.

He holds his hands up in defeat.

A man pushing a dolly stacked with boxes accidentally hits one of the concrete pillars, causing them to tumble with deafening noise.

“¡Buen trabajo!” Craig yells, leaving to shout orders on the main floor.

_______________________________________________________________________

Kyle’s eyes wander from Stan’s wrapped hand to his bloodshot eyes. When Kyle had heard the jingle of keys, he knew it could only be one other person, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of his best friend finally coming home.

“Stan?” he asks, standing up from the kitchen table. “Stan, what are you doing here? Have you -”

“You have to get out of here,” he says, grabbing Kyle by the shoulders. “Now.”

“Wait, what?” Kyle shifts himself from Stan’s hold as his wound on his palm splits and starts to bleed on him.

“Cartman has ordered a hit out on you, and I… I’m the one who’s supposed to do it.”

Kyle looks at him wide-eyed. “And if you don’t?”

“He’ll kill me, and then have someone else kill you.” Stan rushes past him, into Kyle’s bedroom. He digs a duffel bag out of his closet and starts ripping Kyle’s clothes off the hangers, stuffing them into the green and white South Park Cows bag.

Wait, wait, hold on, where would we even go?” Kyle asks, grabbing Stan and forcing him to still long enough to look at him.

Stan is silent, going through his bedside table, taking out his insulin. His fingers land on a photo, and he brings it close to his face. It’s him and Kyle the day they graduated the police academy, arms slung around each other. His shoulders slump, and he sighs, still ignoring Kyle’s question.

“You… are coming with me, right? Cartman is going to see through any excuse that I just happened to vanish off the planet…” Kyle’s mind flashes to Heidi. Would she go into witness protection with him? “Anyway, Stan, there’s proper procedures for this - we…”

Stan looks up at him, his blue eyes fixed on Kyle’s. “Seriously, dude, I love you, but shut up and listen. It won’t be for forever. I’m gonna face Cartman head on, once and for all. There’s no other choice.” Kyle opens his mouth, arms crossed in an almost amusing imitation of his mother, but Stan holds up a hand. “I just need you to be out of the way.”

“Where would I even go?” he says, starting to get aggravated. Stan disappears into the bathroom to rifle through his medicine cabinent.

“”I don’t know. I’m not supposed to know.”

“Why -”

“Kyle, think! You’re smarter than this.” Stan’s tone is sharp enough to be the final straw.

“You’re doing it again! Shoving everyone away while you act like the self-righteous hero. Oh, you’re _so tough_ , Stan, you’re _so brave_. You’re -”

Kyle’s back hits the wall painfully, suddenly his world surrounded by the smell of blood and sweat and alcohol. For a second, he thinks Stan might kiss him again, but he doesn’t - his face hovers only an inch from Kyle’s.

“It’s because I don’t know what he’ll do to find you, and I don’t want to break under … whatever,” he says softly. “It’ll be okay, I promise. You just need to trust me.” He pulls away, turning to keep packing.

“I don’t even know where to go,” Kyle says, the fight slowly draining out of him by his best friend's intensity.

Any explanation or reprimand Stan is about to give is interrupted by a knock on the front door. There’s something familiar about the three sharp rapts, but Kyle can’t place it.

Stan smiles for the first time that day. “Don’t worry, I got an old friend to help out. Just don’t freak out, okay?”

Kyle follows Stan to the front door, and when he opens it, Kyle steps back.

“What the fuck?!”

_________________________________________________________________________

Kenny's oxygen-deprived brain plays tricks on him, creating light bursts that leave traces of neon trails across the darkness. He vaguely registers the pinging tempo of dirt hitting the lid.

Suddenly he’s playing footsie with Butters under their favorite diner’s table, laughing at the shade of red Butters's face turns. 

Then he’s a teenager again - piled on the bed with Stan and Kyle, hands still clean of blood, playing Assassin’s Creed. He passes Stan a joint much to Kyle’s disapproving stare.

He’s sewing up Karen’s new pair of blue jeans as she sniffles in the corner. Kenny knows she ripped it sneaking out of her bedroom window last night, but he doesn’t say anything. Later he offers to take her to the health department to get her on the pill.

No matter how many times Kenny has suffocated to death, he never can stop himself from gasping like a fish out of water. He feels his body go limp, and for a second, he’s watching himself, blue-lipped and dead-eyed, before everything fuzzes out.

_______________________________________________________________

Bebe thumbs through the pages of a cheap harlequin novel she picked up at a used book store, looking for what she calls the ‘good parts’.

This and a manicure are Bebe’s usual remedies for a broken heart, but lately it hasn’t been cutting it. Eventually, she throws the book down, eyes brimming with frustrated tears.

Why couldn’t Clyde have been a doctor or a teacher or something normal?

_But would I have even given him a chance then?_ Bebe thinks guiltily.

She looks at her phone of the coffee table, considering giving Pip a call, remembering the old adage her mother had told her many times. _The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else._

Bebe is halfway through dialing his number when a sharp knock causes her to almost drop her phone. She groans, slamming it back down.

Annoyed, she opens the door to see Clyde. Her jaw drops open until she remembers where they are, and she grabs him by the shirt, dragging him hurriedly into her bedroom.

“What are you doing here? Are you fucking crazy?” she hisses.

Clyde stares at her warily, an odd and out of place expression for him. “You blocked my number.”

Bebe slinks back into herself for a second. “Yeah, I did, but it’s what’s best for both of us!”

“You didn’t think I deserve an explanation?” Clyde asks, his voice neither cold nor angry. Just empty, soft in the still air of her bedroom.

“You killed people, Clyde. Lots of people. Wanna know how I know? My best friend had to make sure their families knew.” The last part she says with a hiss. “What we had was… nice, but it was just a fling.”

Clyde steps back, looking away, shaking his head in what looks like disgust. “Do you even know who those people I killed are? Men who buy from drug cartels and then sell it to addicts. Men who fired at me and my best friend first. You don’t get to fucking judge me. You knew very damn well who I am - or at least I thought you did.”

Bebe opens her mouth but can’t find the words. “It was just a shock, okay? I thought I could handle it, but I couldn’t. I thought it’d be exciting, but … all at once I was shocked you could do something like that and that I could have lost you so quickly.”

This seems to soften Clyde a little bit. He sighs, running his hands through his shaggy, brown hair. “So the only reason you were with me was because you thought I was some bad boy - and then when I proved it true, you wimped out?”

Bebe winces at the harshness - and truth - of his words. “Yes, okay? But I’m stupid. Stupid and shallow and…” She wipes away her shameful tears. “But I love you for who you really are, okay? The Clyde that loves his father and friends with all of his heart, who’s funny, and kind.”

Clyde looks at her hopelessly. He grabs both her hands, and she realizes how calloused they really are. “I don’t know if I can live a… normal life, Bebe. I don’t know if I can abandon Token and Craig like that… and too many people want my head on a plate, okay? But I came here even though one of those people literally live here in this apartment, just to see you again.”

Bebe says nothing, only drawing him to her so she can rest her head on his chest.

“If I promise to ask Token to let me step back some, would you still be with me?” he asks quietly, bringing a hand up to stroke her thick, curly hair.

She takes a deep, damp breath, shuddering with the effort not to cry. “Well, the willingness to meet halfway is one of the building blocks of a healthy relationship.”

Clyde laughs softly. “Okay, Dr. Stevens. Is that a yes?”

She nods and kisses him, leaving a stain of her red lipstick on him. “You better go, though. Before Wendy gets home.”

“Woooould you like to come home with me?” he asks, coyly with a wink.

Bebe throws her head back with a mock eyeroll. “Sure, just let me grab some things.”

As she throws some clothes into an empty tote, she hums to herself, happily, amazed at how wonderful things can work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---- NEXT TIME ----
> 
> We start wrapping this mother fucker up for the most part. Also, bad things happen to Bebe. 
> 
> HA This section with Tweek reminds me of that Wheeler Walker Jr. song : "If my dick is up, then why am I down?"


	9. Never been one to turn down a fight anyway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, if you were wondering what was happened to Ike, now you'll know!
> 
> It's so close to the end. This chapter is super short, but like - it's that bridge to the conclusion. 
> 
> Also, after the first part (with Butters and Stan) everything is happening at the same time (whereas before it was kind of a spotty timeline).
> 
> I rewrote parts of chapter 7 because I wasn't happy with it. No plot points changed but the wording just flows smoother.
> 
> I have a Tumblr! It's mediocrefanfics ! There's a playlist for this fic btw on there.

Stan expected the man to be terrified, but instead he grins, his smile too big for his face. His bloody shirt sticks to his soft frame, his blonde hair matted to his forehead. “I know who you are,” he says, in a breathless sigh.

“I know?” Stan says slowly, wondering briefly if the man has hit his head in the chase.

“No, I know who you really are, Stan Marsh. My boyfriend is-”

“Kenny. That’s why I came after you.” Stan flinches as the man swings an arm around him, using him as support to climb out of the pool. “I can’t find him anywhere, and I need his help with saving our friend. I just happened to come by as the same time as those assholes.”

“Wait,” Butters says, looking up from wringing out his thin T-shirt, “how do you know where I live? And how’d you get those men to go away?"

Stan rolls his eyes. “You’re not exactly a secret in this city, Leopold Stotch, for one. Also , we live in kind of the same neighborhood, so you know…” He shrugs at the lackluster end of his sentence as it trails off. “And I outrank those men, believe it or not. I mean, they think I’m taking you out, so you’re still not off the hook with Cartman.”

“Well, thanks for saving me,” Butters says bashfully. His eyes dart to the side in an expression the cop recognizes as a look of one who knows a secret. “Kenny is … confronting Cartman about something. He’ll be - I hope - back tomorrow morning.” He says every word slowly, like he’s thinking about each one, turning them in the palm of his mind.

“Is it about Karen?” Stan asks, and Butters breathes another sigh of relief.

“Yeah, okay, you know. Yes, and I think it’s all a trap. I can’t shake this feeling something is wrong,” Butters says, rubbing his hands in some weird, nervous ritual. “Kenny is _really_ strong, but something just seems so… off about the situation.”

Stan shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, Cartman has been causing a lot of shit for a lot of people,” he sighs, warily with that thousand yard stare of his.

Butters puts a hand on his arm, a too friendly gesture that still touches Stan slightly. His eyes are wide and compassionate, and suddenly Stan feels like they can see right through him, even the cloudy, scarred one. “That red-headed guy… He came to the clinic asking about you.”

Stan almost winces. “Don’t worry, he found me,” he says quietly, not unkindly. “If Kenny isn’t here, then I don’t have any business with you. I suggest not going home tonight - stay with a friend or something…”

“Wait!” Butters moves forward to reach for Stan but instead almost collapses. He catches him and realizes he’s been injured a lot worse than Stan even realized. He thinks the young doctor is about to ask for a trip to the hospital or a place to stay, but Butters only shudders from a chill before proving him wrong.

“If you’re going to Cartman’s… take me with you. I have to make sure he’s okay.”

Stan smiles sadly at him. “You’re in no shape for that. You know that. Listen, earlier you acted pretty confident Kenny would be okay, right?”

Butters nods, wincing again. “But something is not right. I know that’s silly - I’m so much weaker than him, but I just don’t trust Cartman - But I’m tougher than I look, I swear!”

His sudden enthusiasm, even with the discombobulation of his light headedness, makes Stan chuckle softly. “I believe that. I can’t go yet, I’m sorry. I have to find someone else who can help me.”

“And there’s no one else?” Butters asks, face growing a little grey. Stan realizes if he doesn’t help this man, Kenny will never forgive him. He crouches down, Butters throwing himself on his back, too much in pain to care about a piggy back ride on an almost stranger.

“There is someone who owes me a favor, but it’ll take a lot of convincing. We’ll just have to trust Kenny can take care of himself and get Karen out of there. I can’t forsee being able to crash on Cartman until tomorrow. In the meantime, I can take you back to my place…”

“Okay,” Butters says, mouth muffled in Stan’s shoulder. “But I’m still going with you.”

Stan sighs. _You finally found someone as brave as you, Ken_ , he thinks, as he hauls Butters on his back to his apartment.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“No, absolutely not,” Kyle says fiercely. “Stan, what the fuck were you thinking?”

The sight would be funny if it weren’t public enemy numero uno in his doorway. Behind the tall figure of Craig Tucker is the little underground doctor, who waves at him and smiles.

“Listen, I don’t want to be here either,” Craig says, in biting monotone. He narrows those ivy-colored eyes of his, sizing Kyle up. “It’s been a long time, Broflovski.”

Kyle ignores his comment. “Stan, what the fuck? Give me one reason I shouldn’t call for back up-”

“You reach for that phone, and I’ll snap your fucking neck.”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Stan snarls. “Craig is going to take you somewhere safe.”

“Like hell he is! Seriously, Stan, you’re delivering me into the hands of the enemy?” Kyle’s voice is getting shrill, arms tightly wound across his chest.

“We’re not the enemy. At least right now,” Craig explains, annoyed. Stan looks up at him, surprised that he took the initiative to explain. “Let’s hurry the fuck up. We’re not getting any younger.”

“No, I deserve explanations. Why are you helping us?” Kyle’s feet are rooted to the ground, and everyone in the room knows he won’t move until he gets his way. Craig doesn’t say anything, only sliding his eyes to Stan, giving him a look that borders on sullen.

“Craig’s boyfriend -”

“ _Ex_.”

“ _Ex_ -boyfriend owes a lot of money to Cartman. They’ve been making his life a lot harder, so I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground to make sure they don’t pull any more funny stuff. And in return, Craig is going to be your guard.”

“I don’t believe for one second Cartman’s men won’t blow your balls off the moment you step foot in that house, but a promise is a promise,” Craig says, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Listen, I wanted to get Kenny instead, but he’s MIA -”

“Yeah, wait a second,” Kyle interrupts, pointing towards Butters. “Why is he here?”

Stan huffs. “He insisted. Kenny went after Karen.”

“So you’re going to save him from Cartman?” Kyle asks, a little more harshly than he meant.

Butters blushes under his gaze. “It’s better than just sitting around.”

Stan thrusts the bag into Kyle’s arms. “Exactly, let’s go,” he says, ignoring Kyle’s sputtering protests as the motley crew make their way to their separate cars.

When he’s getting into Craig’s slick black Escalade, briefly impressed at the spotlessness of it, Kyle eyes him. “So you’re doing this for your _ex_ , huh?”

Craig doesn’t even glance at him. “Listen, Broflovski, maybe if you wore your uniform or something, I’d be into it, but right now is really not the time to be -”

“No, that’s not what I meant!” Kyle watches Stan pull off in his car, going in the opposite direction of them. “I meant… why do this for you ex?”

Craig sneers at him, a warning shot. “We really don’t have to talk.” He reaches over and turns up his radio, to an alarming decibel.

Now, if anyone had asked Kyle what he thought Craig would listen to in his car, he would’ve said heavy metal or rap - songs to punch people to. But, apparently, Craig Tucker listens to NPR, so Kyle lets off a sharp laugh, and turns the radio off.

“ _You did not just turn my radio off_. You know, this arrangement with Stan isn’t iron clad, I can still kill you, and -”

“No, you won’t, because Stan knows all about your boyfriend, and let me assure you, Stan believes in an eye for an eye…” Kyle figures buttering up Craig won’t do - he has to entice his blood lust and remind him of his heartbreak.

“What exactly is Marsh to you?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why this guy’s your ex and why you’re doing this.”

Craig rolls his eyes. “It isn’t that big of a deal. We broke up because I asked him to let me pay off his debts and run away with me, and he said no.”

“Why did he say no?”

“Because he wants to pay his debts himself,” Craig answers, in a tone that suggests he thinks the idea is silly, but Kyle can’t help but think there’s a sparkle of pride in his eyes.

“Admirable of him. And he owes his debts to Cartman, correct?” Kyle leans in with sudden intensity.

“.... Correct,” Craig says, side-eyeing his suspiciously. “What is all this about?”

“So if Cartman was out of the picture… his debts would be null and void.” Craig only stares at the road ahead, but the silence is heavy. “So good thing Stan’s taking care of him,” Kyle says blasely, waving his hand.

Craig turns his head to him, dead pan. “I’m not an idiot, Broflovski. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“But come on!” Kyle says, dropping the act a little bit. “Stan can’t take him alone. We both know it. But with your help and mine….”

“I’m just dropping you off to South Park, and then coming back home. That’s it.”

Kyle leans back in his seat and sighs. He stares defiantly out the window, as the passing city scape gets thinner and thinner, blurring into suburbia. His attention catches on a mark on the car door’s beige upholstery. At first he thinks he may have gotten some blood on the door from Stan’s palm, but it’s unnaturally carmine and dry. “So he wears red nail polish, huh?” Kyle asks conversationally.

“Yes? How do you -” Kyle points to the mark. “Oh god damn it, Tweek. He’s always getting nail polish on everything, or glitter, or spilling coffee,” Craig says, and Kyle sees a light shimmer through the cracks of his mask.

“So you two are opposites, then?”

Craig doesn’t say anything, gripping the steering wheel hard enough the sinews of his hands are visible.

“But I bet you’re secretly the romantic one, though. I bet you’re the one who’s taking the break up especially hard.” Kyle notes the slight red puffiness to Craig’s otherwise angular face. If he isn’t careful, his good looks will be marred with gin blossoms in his older age. “I bet you drunk dial him all the time.”

Craig looks suddenly bitten. “Don’t be a dick,” he says coldly.

Kyle leans his elbow on the door, propping his head up. He knows he’s already won. “Cartman is just going to make his life harder, you know that, right? Because if you don’t think he doesn’t know the connection between you two…”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Surely you heard about what happened to Ike, haven’t you? He graduated with Tricia.”

Craig remembers him well - the rambunctious hockey star full of piss and vinegar, top of his class and always with a girl on his arm.

“I don’t have evidence, I don’t think I ever will - but I’m almost certain Cartman was the one who did it. Back when he was just a goon.”

_“Mom said he’ll never walk again. He’s moved back in with his parents,” Tricia says, a stray tear making a trail in her foundation. “She said she visited the other day and… he’s just … not the same.”_

_“But why?”_

_“Didn’t throw the game like he was supposed to.”_

“One of our sources told us the original plan was just to break his kneecaps, but Cartman wanted to make sure he never got to play again,” Kyle says, his voice breaking, pulling down his act in a sudden show of honesty.

Craig pulls into a gas station parking lot, the electric lights glowing in the dusk. He rubs his eyes. “Cartman’s men will kill us,” he says matter-of-factly. “Maybe even torture us.”

“I’d rather be dead than sit by and let Stan get killed.”

Craig groans, leaning his head back. “Fuck it. Let’s go.” He pulls out, into the opposite direction of where they were going. “I’ve never been one to turn down a fight anyway.”

“I just hope we’re not too late,” Kyle says to no one but himself.

“Hey, but wait, we had a deal. What is Stan to you?”

“My super best friend,” Kyle says. “Duh.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bebe slings the tote over her shoulder, walking out to meet Clyde in the living room. “Hey, have you eaten dinner yet?” she calls out. There’s no answer. “Clyde?”

He’s near the front door, both hands raised, his face emotionless. Wendy is in the doorway,  hands clasped around the handle of her pistol. Her purse is thrown at her feet, and there’s a wild look in her eyes Bebe has never seen before.

She looks at Bebe and then at Clyde and then back at Bebe.

Immediately, which Bebe will later remember with shame, her mind flips through excuses, lies. But Clyde’s lips are still tinted red with Bebe’s lipstick, and she knows Wendy will see through anything she says.

She feels the weighted threat of passing out, suddenly in the middle of a hot flash. All she can think to mutter is, “You’re home four hours early.”

“I left my phone here,” Wendy says, voice shaking from either nervousness or anger. “Bebe, put your hands up.”

“Wendy! I-”

 ** _“I said put your hands up!_** ” Wendy roars.

Bebe throws up her hand. “Wendy, I’m really sorry, but.. I didn’t know how to tell you and he’s stepping down, he really is, and…”

“Both of you, hands behind your back.”

“Wendy-”

“Just do as she says, Bebe,” Clyde says, quickly and resigned.

Bebe’s eyes dart quickly for any reprieve, any escape. She knows she’ll never forgive herself if she injures Wendy, but her mind lands on the pepper spray in her bag. She remembers Wendy had to be sprayed as part of her police training, so it's not anything she hasn't experienced yet. 

As horrible as it makes her feel to consider this, Bebe knows what’s at risk - Clyde, not to mention her own freedom. If she thought her life was boring now, she can't imagine what it'll be like behind bars. 

Where she’ll go afterwards, if she manages to escape, she has no idea, but she’s sure Clyde has a safehouse somewhere.

Her chest hurts from the shallow, panicked breathing. Bebe knows she's relying on Wendy's love to stop her from shooting her - the thought twists her stomach in a way that makes her consider abandoning this makeshift plan altogether.

But nonetheless, Bebe’s hand moves ever so slightly towards her purse. Of course the motion is not lost on the cop, and Wendy turns to point the gun towards Bebe. “Put your hands behind your back,” she hisses, a cold look in her brown eyes.

Like ripping a Bandaid, Bebe thrusts her hand inside and yanks out the pepper spray in its compact, pink canister. In a blur, she raises it up, spraying it.

Wendy immediately starts to gasp for air, the rim of her eyes turning red.

“Go! Run!” Bebe shouts, shoving Clyde to the door. Clyde turns around to look at her, confused, before he snaps back into it, and grabs Bebe’s hand. He starts to drag her, but Wendy is too well-trained to let a little pepper spray stop her.

She grabs Bebe’s jacket in a tighthold, but Bebe slips out of it, contorting her limbs.

She and Clyde run down the stairs, past the doorman, shoving into people on the street. Clyde’s car is parked half a block down, and they jump in.

He whips out, and they hear sirens faintly in the distance. Whether or not that’s a coincidence they decide not to find out.

“Holy shit,” Bebe says, covering her face with her hands.

Clyde sighs, finally coming down from the adrenaline. “This is all my fault.” He looks over at Bebe, to comfort her through her tears, to apologize for ruining her life.

When she pulls away her hands, though, she’s not crying - she’s laughing so hard her shoulders shaking. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn you, Ike, trying to be all noble and sportsmanlike. 
> 
> \------ NEXT TIME ------
> 
> Oh god, it's show time, I guess. 
> 
> If you missed Tweek this chapter, he sort of shows up again. 
> 
> There's a chance it'll be a little longer for the next chapter, but because it'll be long and lots of action and stuff.


	10. Death and taxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I learned recently? I use the term "milk toast" in my writing - it's actually spelled milquetoast. The more you know.
> 
> Anyway, the ending! Yahoo! There's of course an epilogue which might get split in two parts (so there will be 12 chapters instead of 11), but idk. 
> 
> I have a Tumblr - it's mediocrefanfics. Plz be mah friend. I have a playlist on there for this fic, if you're interested. Thanks for reading!!!!

Tweek blows smoke out of his nose, pressed up against the brick wall of the restaurant, nervously twirling the cigarette in between his fingers..

His phone feels heavy and ever-present in his back pocket.

It's full of texts and voicemails in garbled Spanglish, a mixture of begging and insults. Craig's vocal fry gets worse as he gets less sober, and Tweek listens, with a twitch, to each voice message, memorizing the lilt of his voice, the way it catches when he gets too emotional. He listens to them over and over, but doesn't dare ever respond. 

The messages play out the same every night. Craig will slur into the phone - or attempt to type out a coherent sentence or two - how Tweek is a bitch, but then it dissolves into him begging for him back by the end. 

Tweek wants to tell Craig he loves him - more than he thought he could ever love anyone - but not when he's like that. Craig doesn't ever try and reach out during the daytime when he's sober, though, and this stings enough for Tweek to obstinately refuse to contact him.

He pulls out his phone, his heart leaping at the missed voicemail notification. Tweek holds it up to his ear, grinning at the sky, very much blue and full of sun. 

“Hey, Tweek,” Craig says, his voice somber. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to help some… people take on Cartman. I might not make it out alive, but I just wanted to tell you one more time that… I love you. The last few months knowing you… has made my life make so much more sense, and no matter what happens …” His voice trails off, cracking, which he tries to cover up by clearing his throat. “It’ll be okay, though. If I … I’ll call you when it’s over, okay?”

The message is at its end, and Tweek swears, eyes filling with tears. He hits Craig’s name, flicking the cigarette to the ground and bouncing on his heels.

“Please pick up, please pick up,” he chants to himself as the phone rings, long and torturous. It goes to voicemail, and Tweek’s back slides against the wall. “Fuck.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Bebe’s laugh dissolves into tears.

“Hey, I’m really sorry,” Clyde says softly, putting a hand on her knee.

Bebe shakes her head. “Don’t be,” she says. “I chose all of this.”

He’s about to tell her he can take her to one of the safehouses when his phone buzzes in his suit pocket, the series of vibrations set for Craig.

“I’m helping ambush Cartman,” Craig says before Clyde can get anything out. “And I need your help.”

“What?! How? Does Tok-”

“I swear to god, Clyde, if you ask if Token knows about this, I’m gonna key that Jaguar of yours if I live through this bullshit. Just meet me at the Shell on Magnolia.”

Clyde sighs as he hangs up. “Bebe, I know you’ve been through a lot today-”

“I’m up for it,” she says, and Clyde raises his eyebrows at the glint in her eyes.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Stan stops the car outside the main gate at a guard shack.

“Stay quiet,” he says to Butters through gritted teeth.

An older man in an evergreen uniform comes to the window. “Name?”

“Stan Marsh.”

The guard dips lower, making eye contact with Butters. “Who’s he?”

Stan smiles a little syrup-y. “Oh, a new _friend_ of Mr. Cartman’s.”

The guard narrows his eyes before nodding. “Go ahead.”

Butters doesn’t breathe again until they pull through. “A new friend? I didn’t think Cartman likes-”

“That’s not the point. There’s no chance in hell that guard would ask Cartman whether or not I was bringing him in some tail,” Stan explains. “Surviving in this world is all about knowing what cards to play. Play the wrong hand, and you’re fucked.

Butters shudders. “How can you live like that?”

“Ask your boyfriend,” Stan says rather deadpanly.

“You know,” Butters says, as he pushes his bangs behind his ears, “he’s going to give up that life once this is over. We’re gonna be together and live honestly.”

Stan doesn’t say anything, and Butters pouts in a way that irritates him enough he has to bite his tongue.

“Why? You don’t believe me?”

Stan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen, I’ve known Kenny for a long time, and he’s always been…. Untameable.” Butters starts to rub his hands together in that strange way of his. “But, if there’s anyone that can make him a honest man, I think it’d be you, Leopold.”

Butters grins at him. “You know, you can call me ‘Butters’. That’s what everyone back home calls me.”

“Butters?”

“Because my last name is Stotch. Get it? Butters Stotch.”

Stan shakes his head and laughs. “Okay, Butters, then.”

They finally reach the end of the winding driveway, through hedges cut inexplicably in the shape of cats, and Stan hears Butters’s intake of breath as they approach Cartman’s monstrosity.

“Don’t be impressed. One strong gust of wind and this thing will probably crumble,” Stan says. If Kyle were there, he’d begin some long-winded lecture on the perils of modern construction shortcuts, but Stan saves Butters the privilege.

He parks at a roundabout out front. “You ready?” he asks, reaching over to the glovebox and pulling out his Beretta.

There’s a much smaller pistol in there he hands to Butters. “You know how to fire one of these?”

“Of course,” Butters says, examining it. “I don’t exactly work at a daycare, pal. How do you think I got this?” He points to his scarred eye. “I have a question, though. How will his men not stop us before we get to see him?”

“He’s expecting me with the big news I’ve killed Kyle. I’ll seek counsel with him, and no one will know the wiser. You’ll have to sneak in.”

“What?!” Butters whines. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Stan shrugs with one shoulder, getting out of the car. “How am I going to kill him when he’s flanked by men? I guess we’re just gonna have to get lucky.”

Butters doesn’t say anything. The alternative is letting Kenny live out whatever cruel fate Butters knows Cartman’s planned and getting murdered himself.

“I guess I’d rather die on my own terms,” he mutters to himself.

“Hey,” Stan says. “We’ll be okay. Just keep sharp.” He nods to the opposite direction with his head. “Try around the back. Stay close to the walls. There’s no way the cameras won’t see you, but if you stay in the bushes, it should buy you some time.”

Butters looks at him with uncertainty before nodding, tucking the gun in the fleece jacket Stan gave him rigged with an arms pocket.

He watches as Stan walks up to the front door, and then books it to the stone wall. Back pressed firmly against it, he quickly follows it, dodging through the ornamental trees and bushes that frame the outside.

He curses the size of the house as a couple of minutes feels like a thousand years before he reaches what he assumes is the “back”. The expansive yard melts into a trailing koi pond and Japanese maples, even adorned with the statue of a portly man Butters suspects is probably Cartman.

He hears the crunch of someone’s footsteps nearby, and he dives behind the statue, on the side that faces a row of hedges.

Peeking around the corner, he sees it’s a rather small woman with a black leather jacket. Her hair is cut short in a fashionable bob, short fringe hanging above her eyebrows. It’s dyed ink black, and she’s heavily made up, but there’s still something startling about the familiarity in her impish features and in her slanted blue eyes.

Then Butters realizes, with the stone drop of his heart and stomach, this is Karen, very much absent of Kenny. She’s crying, eyeliner and mascara trailing down her pale face.

_“Karen would never betray me.”_

Butters is grasping at straws with this whole mission, and as much as he doesn't trust her, she might be the only chance he has to find out where Kenny is. 

Besides, she has a tormented look about her - not the visage of someone who's happily complying with her situation. 

He slips out quietly from his hiding spot, and it takes her a second to notice him through her tears. She breathes in like she’s about to let out an ear-shattering scream, but Butters waves his hands frantically, before bringing his index finger to his lips.

He approaches her slowly, like a ticking bomb. “Do you know who I am?” he says so lowly he thinks the wind might have picked it up and carried it off.

She shakes her head.

“I’m ... “ Butters debates introducing himself. Hesitations roll through his mind at rapid pace. Does she know Kenny likes men? Is she going to even believe him? What will he do if she calls for someone? But the girl is staring at him, wide-eyed, like she's on the brink of running, so he clears his throat. "I'm Kenny's boyfriend." 

Karen draws into herself a little bit, fresh tears rolling down her face. He never expected by the woman’s appearance that she’d be so shy.

“I’m - I’m here to find him, Karen.” Butters gives her a knowing look, but she doesn’t return it - she only starts to cry hard enough she has to kneel on the ground to stabilize herself.

“He’s-” she hiccups. Butters kneels down next to her and puts his hand on her back.

“Hey, whatever happened… Ken is real tough, Karen. He can survive a lot more than you think he can.”

She looks up at him sadly. “He buried him alive.”

Butters winces, turning his head and closing his eyes. He struggles to collect himself. Horrid visions of bloody nails and unheard screams fill his mind until he has to purposefully chase them off. “Where? Where did they bury him?”

She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “I’m not sure, but… at one of Cartman’s new properties, I’m pretty sure. They’re planning on filling it with concrete. But you don’t understand, he’s already dead-”

“Karen,” Butters says, in the the voice he’s been trained on - a delicate balance of authoritative but comforting. “Is there ever a time you can remember that Kenny was gone for awhile - maybe you even saw him die - and then he showed back up? Like magic? Like a mystery?”

“Like Mysterion.” she says softly to herself. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. Just… do you know where this property may be?”

“I think so. I’ve heard bits and pieces.”

“Do you have a car?”

Karen makes a face, an unexpected show of sassiness that reminds him so much of her brother that he has to look away. “No, of course not. I’m a prisoner here.”

“A prisoner?” he whispers, reaching out and grabbing her hand. Butters feels a tremendous wave of guilt wash over him - perhaps he shouldn’t have made such harsh judgments about someone he hadn’t even met.

She shakes her head, brushing it off. “But I know where I can get one. I just have to get into the garage.” She points to the other end of the house. “It’ll Be easy enough if I say I’m just looking for something in there. All the guards are pretty busy right now, anyway. Meet me next to it. There’s some bushes you can hide in.” She stands up shakily, but with a new resolve. “I… still don’t believe he isn’t dead, but at least… we can give him a proper burial this way.”

Butters looks at her softly and nods. “I’ll meet you over there.”

He ducks back into the bushes, following the hedgeline until he’s back up against the house’s wall. Karen could easily be telling the guards he’s here, but Butters really has no choice but to keep going, to trust her.

He rounds the corner she pointed towards and finds a massive garage door. He stays low, warily eyeing a camera aimed near him on the gutter, forcing himself to breathe at an even tempo.

The door starts to rumble and roll up, and much to his relief Karen pulls out in a red Mercedes.

When he gets in, panting from running, Karen is flexing her fingers around the wheel and smiling.

Butters wonders if she’s gotten to drive recently but doesn’t dare pry.

“You know, you’re really lucky I wasn’t being watched. All the guards are preoccupied with some big meeting Cartman is supposed to have.”

Butters eyes widen in recognition. _Stan, be careful._ He hides his expression, just in case this is all a trap. “Watched? Why do they watch you?”

Karen smiles bitterly and tells him the story of how she came to be Cartman’s fiance. Cartman, an old friend of Kenny’s, had reached out to her after she cut Kenny off.

“I was vulnerable, and he was so sweet at the time. I mean, the perfect gentleman. He told me he was a traveling salesman,” she says, shaking her head at herself.

It didn’t take long before Cartman started threatening to kill himself whenever he felt like she wasn’t showing him enough attention. Then he started policing where she went, who she talked to, and eventually the threats to kill himself turned into threats to kill her.

She ends her story with a wet, shuddering breath.

Butters doesn’t say anything, and she turns her head to him sharply. “Do you hate me?” she whispers, and he isn’t sure at first if she’s asking him.

Butters smiles at her comfortingly. “No, I don’t. You didn’t ask for this.”

_Why didn’t you just tell your teachers?_

_Why didn’t you just tell your dad to fuck off?_

_Why didn’t you hit back?_

“I understand how this feels, Karen. I don’t blame you.”

Karen sniffles and gives him a watery smile. “So how did you two meet?”

Butters tells her the story of the first time Kenny McCormick walked into his clinic - and promptly passed out right at the door. When he woke up, he looked Butters in the eyes and told him he was the most beautiful thing Kenny had ever seen.

“He takes care of me - sometimes too much,” Butters says, smiling.

“Do … do you really think there’s chance he could be alive? I mean, it’s impossible, right?”

“You’d be surprised at what Ken is capable of.”

It doesn’t take long before they pull up to a construction site.

“Cartman’s new bank - on the corner of West and Sixth,” Karen says to herself. “This should be it.”

There’s a pit in the rubble, topped with fresh dirt.

Butters figures using the machinery would draw too much attention, even if he had the keys, but his eyes land on shovels leaned against the plank fence. Whatever men Cartman got to dig the hole must have assumed Kenny had already suffocated and would be under six feet of concrete soon enough - his grave is fortunately not too deep.

And, in another stroke of luck, the dirt is soft, too new to be tightly packed, and Butters thanks whatever saint watches over immortal hitmen for this. That doesn’t stop Butters from feeling the sweat roll down his neck and his hands start to rub raw, though, as he and Karen start to dig.

Eventually Karen buries her shovel in, and they hear a metallic thunk. Butters gets on his knees and frantically scoops away the rest of the it, revealing the metal trunk, shut with a lock.

“Fuck, I forgot about the lock,” Karen says, falling to her knees in either exhaustion or hopelessness.

“Don’t worry about it. Go find me a hammer or a screwdriver,” Butters instructs, busy examining it. It’s a cheap, Wallmart-brand chunk of metal.

Karen snoops through the site, eventually coming upon a left behind screwdriver near the entrance.

Butters takes it from her. He holds the lock as to put pressure on one end and uses the blunt handle to knock the side of it.

It pops open, and Karen lets out a squeak. Butters throws it across the lot and shoves the lid open, blood thumping through his ears.

“It’s a miracle,” Karen breathes, as Kenny leans up from his coffin, pale and shaking but nonetheless alive, and falls into Butters arms.

_______________________________________________________________

Stan keeps a hand on his knee to stop him from bouncing his leg as he sits in a leather chair outside of Cartman’s office. He tries to force his breathing to be even, and his eyes from wandering nervously to the guards.

He knows this is one of Cartman’s tactics - one of his passive aggressive ploys to knock everyone else down a peg by making them wait for his audience.

Eventually the doors are thrown open and one of Cartman’s men strides over to Stan. “Mr. Cartman is ready for you now.”

Stan stands up and rolls his eyes, shoving his hands seemingly nonchalantly in his pockets.

“Hold on,” the man says, grabbing him. “Arms out.”

“What?” Stan says, horrified.

“You heard me. Arms out.”

Stan spreads his arms, and the man starts patting him down, finding the gun almost immediately. He pulls it out and tsks. “You won’t be bringing this in.”

Stan panics, breaking out in a prickly sweat, but he makes sure to keep his back straight, his limbs loose.

The man shoves Stan hard into the direction of the office, and Stan looks behind his shoulder back at him, glaring.

Cartman is at his desk - its polished, bare surface indicative of its disuse. He smiles in a way that makes Stan want to choke the life out of him. “Sit down, Stan.”

Stan sits down stiffly, eyes never leaving Cartman’s.

“So, tell me, did you do it?” Cartman clasps his hands and leans over the desk.

 _I can’t shoot him now_ , Stan thinks. _I’ll have to go with Plan B._

“I did,” Stan says solemnly.

“Ohh, give me all the details,” Cartman says, voice slithering and making Stan shiver despite himself. “How did you do it?”

Stan feels like he might be sick, but he forces the words out. “I shot him in the head. While he was sleeping.” His eyes sting with tears, and he curses himself internally for getting emotional over a lie.

“Aww, no fun! And what did you do with the body?”

“Threw him and the gun in the river.”

“Hm, excellent,” Cartman says, raising an eyebrow. “But I have one question, Stan. How am I supposed to believe you?”

Stan wishes he still had his gun. At this point he could just blow Cartman away, and sure, his man at the door probably would kill Stan the second after, but it would all be worth it.

If Stan plays his cards, right, though, he can get his gun back and be even closer to Cartman. He just has to tackle this next question.

“He isn’t going to show up for work tomorrow, that’s for sure,” he wants to say. “That’s proof.”

He knows it’s a weak lie, but as good as any. Stan starts to feed it to Cartman when he’s interrupted with shouts from the hallway, accompanied by the rapid crescendo of approaching gun fire.

One of Cartman’s men runs to the doorway, out of breath. “Boss, there’s intruders, but we’re dealing with - “ There’s a loud pop, and his eyes widen as he crumples forward, hands clutching his gut.

“Wow, Broflovski, nice… “ Craig is almost ambushed by another one, but Clyde throws him to the side in an impressive show of strength. “... shot.”

“Thanks,” Kyle says through a clenched jaw, dodging another’s grope. “Stan!” he yells, face softening at the sight of his best friend still alive. His eyes land on Cartman, and he points his gun at him. “It’s over, fatass.”

Cartman glares at him, beady eyes burning holes in Stan and Kyle. “You stupid ki-”

Kyle growls, his finger so close to pressing the trigger, when he’s ambushed from behind. A goon holds his arms back, but Kyle donkey kicks him in the balls. Another guard punches him in the side of the head, bringing him to the ground.

“Kyle!” Stan cries, running over to save him.

“No! Don’t let Cartman go!” Kyle manages to get out before the man knees him so hard in the stomach he wretches.

Cartman is running by the brawl, slipping past through the doorway. Craig grabs his ankle, but one of the men stomps on his wrist, making him scream in pain.

The guard who came to the door to warn Cartman is slumped on the floor, and Stan reaches down quickly to grab his gun from his holster.

With a parting worried look at Kyle, who’s still trying to keep his gun from being wrestled from him, Stan follows after Cartman.

Even with Cartman’s head start, Stan is still faster than him, and he tackles him to the ground, where they roll into a dining room. It’s a long but narrow space that ends in a balcony with a sweeping view of the gardens. Stan has Cartman backed up into the table, both the men pointing their guns at each other.

Stan gets ready to fire when he hears a shot from down the hallway and Kyle’s scream, piercing through Stan’s brain and making his ears buzz. With every ounce of his being, he wants to run to him, to make sure those sickening gurgling noises he’s hearing aren’t the death throes of his super best friend, but then that’ll leave him open to Cartman’s aim.

And then everything they’ve sacrificed will be for nothing, so he tries to stop his shaking hand as tears roll down his face.

“Hear that?” Cartman asks, face splitting in a grin. “Your boyfriend is rolling around on the floor, choking on his own blood.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stan says, voice full of vibrato from the sobs he’s keeping held back. “I’ll make you pay. I’ll make you fucking pay.”

He pulls his trigger, relishing in the thought of the bullet piercing Cartman right through the eyes, shattering his being all over the room.

But instead nothing happens - no noise, no push back, no bullet. Just silence, interrupted by Cartman’s roaring laugh. “You idiot. My lower men only carry guns for show! They’re not loaded. Did you think I trust all those dumbasses around me with weapons?”

Stan lowers the gun stoically. His face slackens from it’s hardened expression. “You know, Cartman, I feel bad for you.”

Cartman’s raucous laughter stops, his face twisting in displeasure. “What the fuck you mean?”

“We were your friends, Cartman, but instead you chose greed. So fucking kill me - do it. I’ll die loved. But one day, one day, you’re luck will run out, and you’ll die cold and alone and empty - because if there’s one thing in life you can’t escape…”

“... it’s death,” Kenny finishes, firing the gun into the back of Cartman’s head.

Stan’s ears ring, and he’s vaguely aware of something thick and wet and hot splattered on him. When he saw Kenny appear at the balcony behind Cartman, he knew what the next inevitable step would be. Nothing could prepare him for this, though, as Cartman’s body falls to the ground with a heavy thump. "And taxes, I guess." Kenny shrugs.

“Shit,” Stan whispers as the world stops spinning. “Kyle.”

He turns and runs down the hall, jumping over either unconscious or dead men, Kenny close behind.

Stan tackles Kyle, who is bruised and battered but largely unhurt, in a hug. “I thought you were dead. I heard you scream and then -“

Kyle only points to the corner.

Craig is breathing hard, his wrist hanging limply as he holds Clyde, who’s bloody-mouthed and glassy-eyed.

“Leo is outside. I’ll go get him,” Kenny says hurriedly.

Kyle stiffly crawls his way to them, and Stan follows. He pulls up Clyde’s shirt, revealing a bullet wound in his chest. “Don’t move him,” Kyle says, and Stan rips a part of his shirt, stuffing it it to the hole as gently as possible, to keep air from getting sucked in.

Stan nervously watches the door. He and Kyle have a decent amount of emergency medical training, but they aren’t doctors, and there’s a very good chance this bullet wound is close to his lungs.

“Fuck,” he hears Kyle mutter. He looks up at Stan, and his eyes widen as they glance over his torso.

Stan looks down and grimaces. “Cartman’s,” he explains. “Kenny got him in the back of the head.”

Kyle doesn’t have time to respond when Butters runs up the stairs and towards them, immediately falling to his knees and checking Clyde’s pulse.

Kenny, Karen, and inexplicably Bebe Stevens follow after him. When Bebe sees Clyde, her face grows paler, and she falls to the ground next to Butters.

“We have to get him to the hospital, now,” Butters says. “You, too, pal, if you ever want to use that hand again.”

Craig shakes his head. “Take him, but I can’t -”

“You came to the rescue of an officer - two officers actually. We’ll make sure this doesn’t end in jail time for you,” Kyle interrupts. He grabs for his phone, finding it halfway across the room. He talks quickly, quietly into it after dialing 911 as Butters holds the cloth to Clyde’s wound and Bebe strokes his hair, her soft whispers the only other noise.

Time seems to inch by, misty and unreal. At one point Stan feels a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” Kenny asks, getting on the ground next to him.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“Thank them,” Kenny says, thumbing towards Butters and Karen. “They’re the ones who saved me.”

Eventually they hear the approaching sirens, and the house suddenly fills with their fellow officers and EMTs.

Wendy steps through the crowd as they carry Clyde away in a stretcher. Much to Stan’s confusion, she makes eye contact with Bebe, who looks panicked and quickly follows into the ambulance.

She smiles at Stan, and he knows she wants nothing more to wrap her arms around him. But decorum outweighs her emotions, so instead she puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a knowing smile. “So tell me the truth - did those two really help save everyone?”

“Not only that, Donovan got shot shoving me out of the way,” Kyle explains, holding an a gel cold pack to his almost swollen up left eye.

Stan suddenly remembers the others, and his eyes dart around for Kenny, Karen, and Butters, but they’re gone, no doubt whisked away by Kenny in that shadowy way of his.

“Well, I suggest you two get cleaned up and come to the station for questioning. The both of you are on desk duty until you get through mandated therapy.”  
Kyle and Stan groan, trading eye rolls.

“Oh, believe me, you’ll need all that time for the massive paperwork you two are going to have to do because of this.”

Stan grins, first at Wendy and then at Kyle, looping an arm around Kyle’s shoulders. “I think it’ll be good to be back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... not that any of them besides the cops pay taxes anyway....
> 
> By the way, those locks are just that easy to break.
> 
> \------ NEXT TIME ------
> 
> We find out what happens after this!


	11. Here's to looking at you, kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end, ahoy!
> 
> Thanks for sticking through this with me <3 As per usual -
> 
> I have a Tumblr. It's mediocrefanfics. I will answer questions, chat, take requests, whatever. I have a cool fic idea - thanks to XxLevixX - coming up that's 90's inspired, and I always welcome people to send stuff!
> 
> Again, this is based very much off of aegisdea's drawings and panels. Others have also drawn/written really cool sp mafia au stuff, too. 
> 
> I hope you've had a good time.

**Two days after Cartman’s death**

Token rubs his temples, eventually opening his sharp brown eyes. “I don’t know what to be more mad at - that you two did all this behind my back, or that you two almost got yourselves killed.”

Craig looks like his usual self, just few bruises and a sling richer. His face is unreadable but not necessarily unearnest. “We did what we thought was best. We got rid of Cartman, didn’t we?”

Token sighs. “And I guess we’re more in a position to try… your idea. But what am I going to do now? I’m down a consigliere and an underboss. And Cartman may be gone, but his gang isn't.”

“That’s why my idea is such a brilliant one,” Craig shrugs. “You won’t have to do it alone.”

_________________________________________________________________________________

**One year later after Cartman's death**

 Kenny sets down the plastic tub with a thud, the noise reverberating through the mostly empty room. Karen sits cross-legged on the floor, unpacking books while eyeing a beetle scurrying across the ground.

Somewhere upstairs Butters is singing one of his nonsense, cheerful songs, and Kenny follows the noise until he finds him in their room, making the bed. All the windows are open, the Hawaiian breeze making the curtains flutter. There's something so sweet and content in Butters's face Kenny can't help but stare.

When he finally looks up and sees Kenny, Butters blushes, smiling coyly. Kenny closes the door with the back of his heel and crosses the room, throwing him on the bed. “But I just made it!” Butters giggles as Kenny tackles him, burying his face into his neck.

“Oh, don’t worry, Butterscup,” Kenny says, grinning and winking. “I think we should break this bed in.”

The sun sets somewhere in between their bated breaths and reddened faces. The room is dim as they stay entangled in each other, still one, whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. “We should go downstairs and make dinner,” Butters says, running his hands through Kenny’s shaggy hair. “Well, I’ll make dinner. You study.”

Kenny smiles. “Sounds good.” He doesn’t make any effort to get up, but instead concentrates on the rhythm of Butters’s heart until he pulls Kenny out of bed with a groan.

He sits at the table over his mortuary exam textbook, half-paying attention to Karen and Butters’s conversation about what color to repaint the kitchen. Earlier he had offered up the suggestion of a lovely shade of aquamarine blue, but both his housemates scoffed, so he tapped out of the debate with a huff of indignation. 

The quiet hum of the fridge, the sound of the water in the pot coming to rolling boil, the buzz of fly - Kenny feels a strange nagging as his eyes trace over diagrams of intestines. He wants to stretch his legs, go for a walk, anything. It doesn’t occur to him until he lets out a great, big yawn, what this feeling is.

Kenny is _bored_ , and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

____________________________________________________________________________

**Two days after Cartman’s death and an hour after Craig talks to Token**

Tweek can't seem to decide whether he's unusually small or if everything is just abnormally large. Either way, these doors that line the walls - all different colors, sizes, and shapes - have knobs too high for him to reach. They shake with a cacophony of knocks, and somewhere in his heart he knows Craig is behind one of them. His love - dashingly handsome with the secret heart of a hero  who he's spent the last two days searching for - is trapped behind one of these infuriating doors.

It's like he never existed. Somewhere, even in reality, Tweek worries irrationally Craig was nothing but a ghost all along, his existence wiped from Tweek's world. 

He looks around frantically, but the hall (When has he ever been in a castle anyway?) extends into nothingness, the luxe red carpet fading into darkness. 

Somewhere in his mind he remembers lines he long ago memorized for a high school play. 

 _Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,_  
_Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before_

Tweek sits up with a force, his eyes still heavy from crying and exhaustion. Rubbing them, he reaches blindly for his glasses - some big, round, wire things he'd never be caught dead in outside of the apartment. For a panicked moment, he thinks he’s still dreaming as someone knocks on his front door, but then he realizes the sound is very much real and getting louder with every second.

Pissed and still half asleep, he gets out of bed, stumbling to put on sweatpants.  “I’m fucking coming!” Tweek yells as he manages to get his last leg in, almost tripping over in the process. 

He runs his hands through his bed head, just to get his fingers tangled as he throws open the front door.

Whatever annoyance he felt melts away in an instant. He starts to say something - anything - but words only catch in his throat. His eyes wander to Craig’s sling and the yellowing bruise across his face. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I called every hospital - even the fucking coroner.” Tweek slumps against the door frame, eyes wide with relief and shock. “Oh thank god.”

The tears come hot and fast, and he wants to reach up for Craig, to feel that he’s real underneath his fingertips. 

“They put me under an alias,” he says, in the same dry, monotone voice he uses for everything - like he didn't just rise from the dead, living and breathing in Tweek's life again. “We did it, Tweek. We killed Cartman.”

Tweek gasps, his shuddering breath concerning enough for Craig to put his good arm around his waist. Everything in Craig's demeanor softens - whatever shell he uses as armor sheds the moment he touches Tweek. “I know it’s not what you wanted, but you should be okay. His crime family is still strong, and I’m sure your name is on the books somewhere, but debts tend to get lost in the shuffle….” 

Tweek shakes his head, finally putting a gentle hand on Craig’s face. “It doesn’t matter. You’re alive and you’re here. You’re really here.”

Craig pulls him into a kiss, holding him close. Tweek weakens against the way Craig rubs the small of his back with his thumb, tangling his fingers in Craig’s hair eagerly. Craig breaks away with a gasp. “We need to talk. I have good news.”

Tweek, head buzzing with happiness, insists on making coffee first, and together they sit, Tweek almost in Craig’s lap, hands wrapped around a mug.

“I’m not consigliere anymore,” he says flatly. Tweek’s eyebrows raise. “At least not in a traditional sense. Token and the police department are partnering to handle the crisis with Cartman’s gang, so Token is cutting down on our more… violent endeavors. I've decided to take advantage of that and leave town for a little while.”

“Leave town?” Tweek asks, alarm in his voice.

“For a couple of years. We have some associates in Cuba, and Token has some property down there, so… I’m going there to stay a little while.” Craig takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing Tweek peripherally.

“Oh,” Tweek says, his face crestfallen. That’s something Craig loves about Tweek - the way his emotions play out so vividly across his face. “That's a little bit more than just leaving town, but I’m happy for you.” His mouth pulls into a pretty convincing smile. "I really am!"

Craig sets down his mug. He turns to Tweek and takes his hand. “I’m sorry I gave you an ultimatum.”

 “I’m sorry I was so sensitive about it.” His eyes refuse to meet Craig’s - instead he nervously twists a silver band on his middle finger. “I’ll miss you.”

Craig sighs. “Tweek, I want you to come with me.”

Tweek gasps before his face lights up. “Wait, seriously?! Are you sure? But… I… are you really, really sure?”

Craig laughs breathlessly, trying to cover up his nerves. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head a million times in the car, in usual Craig fashion, but he knew Tweek’s reaction would be a wild card. He nods.

“Yes,” Tweek says, tears gathering in his eyes. “Yes, I’ll go with you. Oh, Craig.” He kisses him mid-sob, a wet, messy kiss that Craig breaks with a hum.

“I love you,” he whispers before connecting their lips again with such gusto Tweek tumbles backwards with a laugh.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**A day after Cartman’s death**

“He’s probably going to be a little fuzzy,” the nurse tells Bebe. “We’ve been giving him some pretty strong medication.”

Bebe nods solemnly, hand clenched around her purse strap. The nurse opens the door, and she walks in, not knowing what to expect.

It’s the same old Clyde sitting in the bed, albeit a little more glassy-eyed and bruised. His eyes flicker to Bebe without moving his head. His torso is wrapped in bandages, and there’s wires hanging out of him in all directions, connected to machines that beep and whir.

“Oh, Clyde,” she says, kneeling at the bedside. She wants to wrap her arms around him but doesn’t in fear of pulling one of his tubes. “You’re so brave.”

Clyde bites his bottom lip, tears gathering his eyes. Bebe doesn’t know if he just doesn’t want to speak or he can’t.

“How- how much?” she asks hesitantly.

“Waist down,” he rasps, blinking his tears back rapidly.

“Oh, baby.” Her fingertips graze his face. She jumps at the nurse’s voice, not noticing she had come in to take Clyde’s blood pressure.

“With the right attitude and therapy, he should regain more mobility - he might even be able to walk with a cane.” She eyes Clyde over her glasses. “No moping around, though. You’ve got to make the effort.”

Clyde doesn’t respond, staring distantly at the ceiling. He doesn’t have to say anything for Bebe to realize the unspoken assumption in the room. She stands up, back straight. “Clyde,” she says in her no nonsense tone, “I don’t care how long it takes. A year, a decade. I won’t give up until you can walk again.”

His eyes widen. “You mean it?”

“Did you really think I would ditch you now that you’re injured?” Bebe puts her hands on her hips. “What kind of woman do you think I am?”

Clyde smiles, looking exhausted and relieved. The nurse puts a new IV bag on the hook and leaves. He and Bebe sit in silence for a little while in comfortable companionship until his eyes grow heavy. Bebe watches him sleep, thinking how he looks so young like this, wiping away her tears she waited to shed until he couldn't see them. She's lost in thought when she feels a soft hand on her shoulder.  “I-,” she begins, voice quieting at the look on Wendy’s face.

Wendy squeezes her shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Bebe. I was waiting outside and heard what you told him.”

Bebe blushes. “I really do love him, you know.”

“I know,” Wendy says. “I know.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

**6 months after Cartman’s death**

Bebe knocks raptly on the door, not waiting for a response before peeking her head in. “You guys ready? Wendy-”

Stan hangs over a trash can, face green. Kyle hands him a towel, shooting Bebe a look.

“Are you going to be okay?” Bebe asks. Her hair is piled on top of her head with enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector.

“He will be,” Kyle says. Stan stands up, and Kyle straightens his tie for him. “Dude, just make sure you don’t puke on her at the altar.”

Stan doesn’t look amused. “How’s Wendy?”

“Nervous,” Bebe says with a wink. “She looks beautiful.”

“I bet she does,” Stan says breathlessly, whether from the romantic thought of Wendy in her wedding dress or effort not to throw up again, Kyle isn’t sure. Either way, he steps back, just to be safe.

Bebe closes the door quietly, giving the boys some privacy.

Stan looks up at Kyle, face reddening. He can tell Stan is gathering the courage up to say something, but Kyle saves him the effort. He puts his hands on Stan’s shoulders. “I am okay with this. I’m happy for you, Stan. This is what I _want_ for you. Okay?” It's the honest to god truth - somewhere, Heidi waits with the rest of the bridesmaids, and Kyle's heart thumps at the thought of her in that strapless, purple dress. 

Stan nods a little numbly. He takes a deep breath. “I think I’m ready.”

“I think you are, too,” Kyle says, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, Tweek and Craig end up running a Casablanca-esque bar in Cuba. 
> 
> I'll be honest, I had a tragic ending planned out for every character - but I couldn't. All of them kind of redeemed themselves and faced their flaws, so I felt like they deserved happy endings. 
> 
> Yeet.

**Author's Note:**

> I once served an undercover cop at a restaurant. He was kind of a dick. Long story.


End file.
